Chapter 2

Ayla stood on the sidewalk, the rain washing away the last traces of the Tillman family's suffocating perfume.

Exactly three minutes after she ended the call, a massive, bulletproof black SUV glided to a halt in front of her. The tires hissed against the wet asphalt.

The rear door popped open.

Ayla climbed into the back seat. The heavy door shut, instantly silencing the storm outside.

The driver, a man in a sharp suit, didn't look back. He simply handed a thick dry towel and a folded pile of clothes over the center console.

"Ten minutes to the estate, ma'am," the driver said.

Ayla took the towel. She quickly dried her hair and stripped off the soaked jeans and shirt. She pulled on the fresh clothes-a sleek, tailored black turtleneck and a long, structured black trench coat.

She tied her damp hair back into a tight, severe bun.

The pathetic, helpless orphan was gone. The woman sitting in the back seat now radiated a cold, suffocating authority.

The SUV tore through the storm, eventually slowing down as it approached the massive iron gates of the Obsidian Estate.

Four heavily armed security guards stepped into the headlights, raising their flashlights to blind the driver.

The driver rolled down his window just an inch. He slid a black card with a subtle, raised crest through the gap.

The head of security shined his light on the card. His jaw tightened. He immediately tapped his earpiece and waved the vehicle through.

The iron gates groaned open.

The SUV pulled up to the grand entrance of the main house. Ayla pushed the door open and stepped out into the wind, her trench coat snapping around her legs.

She walked up the stone steps.

Inside the grand foyer, Morgan Steele was pacing across the marble floor. His massive shoulders were tense, his hand resting near the holster at his waist.

The heavy front doors opened. A gust of cold wind swept into the foyer.

Morgan stopped pacing. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of the person standing in the doorway.

He saw a nineteen-year-old girl.

Morgan's thick eyebrows pulled together. He took a step forward, his massive frame blocking the hallway.

"You're lost, kid," Morgan growled. "Turn around and get back in that car."

Ayla didn't blink. She looked up at the giant of a man.

"Code Alpha-Seven-Niner. Patient is experiencing severe neurological degradation," Ayla said, her voice flat and mechanical.

Morgan's breath hitched. His pupils dilated. That was the encrypted medical code. Only the highest-level insiders knew it.

"You?" Morgan's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You are The Surgeon?"

"Time is tissue, Mr. Steele," Ayla said. "Are you going to let him die while you process my age?"

Morgan's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. He stepped closer, raising his hands. "I need to pat you down. Protocol."

Ayla let out a low, dark chuckle.

She didn't step back. Instead, she stepped directly into Morgan's personal space.

The air around her seemed to drop ten degrees. A heavy, suffocating killing intent rolled off her body-the kind of aura forged in underground bloodbaths and black-market operating rooms.

Morgan's stomach plummeted. His instincts screamed at him. Before he even realized what his body was doing, he took a half-step back.

"If you waste another second," Ayla said, her eyes boring into his, "and the man inside that room stops breathing, his blood is on your hands. Not mine."

Morgan swallowed hard. The sweat on the back of his neck went cold. He weighed the risk of a weapon against the very real risk of his boss dying tonight.

He dropped his hands. He turned sideways, gesturing down the long corridor.

"This way."

Ayla walked past him.

They moved down the silent, heavily guarded hallway. Men in suits lined the walls, their eyes tracking her every move. Ayla ignored them all.

They reached a set of thick, soundproof double doors at the end of the hall.

Morgan stepped up to the panel. He punched in a twelve-digit code and pressed his thumb to the scanner.

The heavy doors slid open with a soft hiss.

The smell of raw antiseptic and the steady, rhythmic beeping of life-support machines flooded Ayla's senses.

She stepped into the room.

Her eyes bypassed the millions of dollars worth of medical equipment and the three frantic doctors in white coats.

Her gaze locked onto the center of the room.

A man sat in a high-backed wheelchair, facing the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

Even from behind, his shoulders were impossibly broad. He slowly turned his head, revealing a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.