Chapter 4

Alaina ran for what felt like miles, ducking through manicured hedges and dark alleyways until the pristine lawns of the Upper East Side gave way to the grimy streets of a neighboring district. She finally collapsed into an abandoned phone booth, her lungs on fire. The smell of stale urine and wet rust filled the cramped space.

Alaina shoved the folding glass door shut, blocking out the howling wind. She leaned against the dirty glass, her chest rising and falling in sharp, painful gasps. The cold iron box pressed against her ribs, a heavy reminder of what she carried.

Her fingers were numb and shaking as she dug into her wet jeans. She pulled out three quarters. She shoved them into the coin slot and punched in the number.

The line rang twice before Chloe picked up.

"Alaina? Jesus, where are you? You sound like you're drowning."

"Chloe," Alaina choked out. The adrenaline was fading, and the cold reality of her situation was sinking into her bones. "Warren cut the insurance. Fred is trying to steal the formula. I need cash. Tonight. Or the hospital is throwing my mom out tomorrow morning."

Chloe swore violently on the other end. "That piece of trash. Okay, listen to me. The traditional buyers are too slow. You need the underground market."

"Where?" Alaina demanded.

"The Meatpacking District. There's a black-market auction happening tonight in an old cold-storage warehouse. I have a contact. I'll text you the address and the entry phrase. But Alaina... it's dangerous. These aren't corporate guys. They're sharks."

"I don't care," Alaina said. "Just send it."

She hung up the phone. She pressed her hands to her face, taking one deep, shuddering breath.

She pushed the phone booth door open and stepped back into the rain.

Headlights blinded her.

A massive black Lincoln Navigator swerved around the corner, its tires screeching on the wet asphalt. It slammed to a halt, blocking the sidewalk.

The back door flew open. Fred Porter stepped out, holding a large black umbrella. Two bodyguards flanked him, cutting off Alaina's escape routes down the narrow street.

"You're making this very difficult, Alaina," Fred sighed, adjusting his silk tie. "Hand over the box. I'll make sure your mother gets a nice, comfortable room for her final days."

Alaina stared at his smug face. Her jaw clamped shut so hard her teeth ached.

"Drop dead," she whispered.

Fred's eyes hardened. He flicked his wrist. "Take it from her."

The bodyguard on her left lunged. His massive hand reached for the collar of her sweater.

Alaina didn't back away. She stepped into his reach. She twisted her torso, letting his hand slip off her wet shoulder. She drove her elbow straight back, burying the sharp bone deep into the man's floating rib.

The guard grunted, stumbling sideways.

The second guard charged, wrapping his thick arms around her waist to tackle her to the pavement.

Alaina brought her knee up with brutal force. She drove it directly into his groin. The man let out a strangled gasp, his eyes bulging, and collapsed into a puddle, clutching himself.

Fred cursed. He dropped the umbrella and lunged at her himself, his hands clawing for her hair.

Alaina ducked under his grasping hands. Her right hand flew to the back of her head. She pulled out the long, sharp metal hairpin that held her messy bun together.

She spun around and drove the pointed end of the metal pin directly against the soft hollow of Fred's throat.

Fred froze. His eyes went wide with shock. The cold metal pressed against his windpipe.

"Take one more step," Alaina hissed, her voice vibrating with pure hatred, "and I will puncture your trachea."

Fred swallowed hard. He didn't dare move. He had never seen this look in her eyes before. It was the look of an animal backed into a corner.

Alaina shoved him backward with her left hand. Fred stumbled, his leather shoes slipping on the wet concrete.

Alaina turned and sprinted toward the glowing green globes of the subway entrance down the block. She leaped down the concrete stairs, swiped her MetroCard, and threw herself through the turnstile.

She dove into the waiting subway car just as the doors chimed and slid shut.

Through the scratched glass, she saw Fred standing on the platform, his face twisted in a mask of pure rage, screaming something she couldn't hear.

The train lurched forward, plunging into the dark tunnel. Alaina collapsed into a hard plastic seat. Her hands were shaking so violently she had to interlock her fingers to make them stop.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Chloe. An address on Gansevoort Street.

Fifty blocks away, in a glass-walled office suspended above the city, Kyle Wood stood in front of a massive digital wall monitor.

The screen displayed a high-definition thermal feed from a drone hovering over the subway entrance. He watched the heat signature of Alaina fighting off the guards and threatening Fred.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled in Kyle's chest.

"She fights dirty," Kyle murmured. His eyes burned with a mixture of dark pride and dangerous obsession.

He turned away from the screen. Silas stood by the mahogany desk, holding a custom-tailored suit that bore the subtle, terrifying crest of the Durham family.

"Silas," Kyle said, his voice dropping into the lethal register of the Wall Street wolf. "Contact the auction house in the Meatpacking District. Tell them Mr. Durham is attending tonight."

Silas bowed his head. He held out a black, tactical half-mask.

Kyle took the mask. He ran his thumb over the hard carbon fiber. Tonight, the poor sales rep was dead. The monster was coming out to play.