Chapter 2

The rusted Honda fishtailed in the heavy rain, its tires screeching as I slammed the brakes outside the emergency entrance of a discreet Brooklyn clinic.

I threw the door open, grabbed Jace from the backseat, and sprinted into the glaring fluorescent light of the lobby.

"I need help! Pediatric emergency!" I screamed, letting genuine panic lace my fake, trembling voice.

A triage nurse took one look at Jace's pale, sweaty face and yelled for a gurney. They ripped him from my arms and rushed him through the double doors of the trauma bay.

I stood there, dripping rainwater onto the linoleum, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

A receptionist shoved a clipboard into my hands. "I need his information. And yours. Social Security number and guardian status."

My hand shook violently as I took the pen. I forced my handwriting to slant, making it look uneducated and rushed. I filled in a ghost SSN-a dead CIA alias Zane had buried in the system years ago.

Under the name, I wrote The Nobody. Under occupation, I checked Janitor.

I handed the board back. Above the reception desk, a muted TV flashed breaking news. Attempted Terror Attack at JFK. Billionaire Heir Missing.

Three patients in the waiting room stared at the screen, then slowly turned their heads to look at me. My oversized, soaked uniform clung to me like a garbage bag.

I immediately hunched my shoulders, pulling the collar up to hide my jawline, and backed into the corner, wrapping my arms around myself like a frightened animal.

The trauma doors swung open. A doctor stepped out, peeling off his gloves. "He's stable. Acute pneumonia triggered a massive fever spike. We've administered broad-spectrum antibiotics. He'll be fine."

I let out a loud, shuddering breath. I walked to the glass window of the recovery room and looked at Jace. An oxygen mask covered his small face.

My chest tightened, but I pushed the feeling down. Apollo's cyber team would trace that fake SSN to this clinic in minutes.

I had to vanish before they arrived. I needed them to think I was a terrified nobody who didn't want a reward.

I turned away from the glass and walked toward the restrooms, keeping my chin tucked to my chest, perfectly calculating the blind spots of the ceiling cameras.

Inside the cramped bathroom, I locked the door. I stripped off the wet janitor uniform and turned it inside out. It became a plain, dark grey hoodie. I pulled it over my head.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a forged employee ID card for a shell cleaning company. I dropped it on the edge of the sink, making sure it looked like it had slipped out by accident.

The screech of heavy tires echoed from the street outside.

I pushed the small frosted window open. It was barely wide enough for a child, but I dislocated my left shoulder with a sickening pop, squeezed my torso through the gap, and popped the joint back into place as I landed on the rusted fire escape in the alley.

Down below, five black armored SUVs swarmed the clinic entrance.

Apollo Buck stepped out of the lead vehicle.

Even from the roof two blocks away, looking through my tactical binoculars, his presence was suffocating. He was massive, dressed in a dark suit that clung to his broad shoulders. His face was a mask of pure, violent rage.

He stormed into the clinic, his bodyguards forming a wall behind him.

Through the glass lobby doors, I watched Apollo grab the doctor by the collar of his scrubs. The doctor's feet nearly left the floor. Apollo roared something, his veins popping in his neck.

The doctor pointed frantically to the recovery room. Apollo dropped him.

Apollo immediately pulled an antibacterial wipe from his pocket and scrubbed his fingers, his face twisting in absolute disgust at having touched another human.

He walked to the glass, saw Jace, and the tension in his spine snapped. He slumped slightly, pressing his hand against his chest.

Cole walked up to him, holding the clipboard. Apollo snatched it. He stared at the messy handwriting.

Cole pointed to the hallway. A bodyguard jogged out of the bathroom, holding my fake ID card with a gloved hand.

Apollo took the card. He stared at the plain, unremarkable photo of The Nobody-a perfectly executed piece of forgery designed to be entirely forgettable. I couldn't hear him, but I saw his lips move. He was barking an order.

I lowered the binoculars. The rain plastered my hair to my face.

I tapped my earpiece. "Zane. They have the bait. Build the digital footprint. Make her poor, make her desperate, and make her real."