Chapter 1

The screech of the power drill tore through the suffocating afternoon heat inside the Pine Creek garage.

Allison leaned halfway under the hood of a totaled Mustang. The toxic smell of motor oil and stale sweat clung to her skin.

Ricky, the teenage apprentice, stood three feet away. He gripped a wrench, his eyes wide as he tried to track her movements. He couldn't. Her hands were a blur of grease and precision, moving faster than his brain could process.

She grabbed a thick, tangled cluster of wires with one hand. She yanked it hard.

The dead engine coughed. A second later, it roared to life, the deep, guttural sound vibrating through the concrete floor.

"Holy shit," Ricky breathed out, stepping back. He stared at the engine like it was a ghost. It was supposed to be scrap metal.

Allison didn't smile. She didn't even blink. She tossed a filthy rag onto the hood. Her face was completely blank, her jaw set in a hard line.

On the metal workbench behind her, a cracked cell phone started vibrating violently.

The caller ID flashed a number from Aethelgard.

Allison's stomach tightened. A cold wave of disgust washed over her chest. She wiped a streak of grease from her thumb and hit the speaker button.

"Stop playing around in the dirt, Allison."

Sterling Conner's voice filled the garage. It was arrogant. Impatient. The voice of a man who thought he owned the world.

Allison let out a slow breath. She reached for the half-empty can of cold cola on the bench.

"You are to be at the Aethelgard estate tomorrow morning," Sterling ordered. "No excuses. I'm done letting you embarrass this family."

Allison hooked her finger under the tab of the can. She popped it open. The sharp hiss of carbonation echoed in the quiet garage.

"Dream on," she said. Her voice was flat. Dead.

She heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Sterling wasn't used to being told no.

"You ungrateful little bitch," Sterling snarled, his voice rising. "You think you have a choice?"

Allison took a sip of the cola. The icy liquid burned down her throat. She didn't say a word.

"If you aren't standing in my foyer by tomorrow," Sterling threatened, dropping his voice into a lethal register, "I will permanently freeze your mother's trust fund. Every single cent."

The word mother hit Allison like a physical blow to the ribs.

Her fingers clamped down on the aluminum can. The metal shrieked and crumpled under her grip. Cola spilled over her knuckles, dripping onto the concrete.

Ricky took another step back, his back hitting the tool rack. The air in the garage suddenly felt too heavy to breathe. He stared at the girl, terrified of the sudden, violent energy radiating from her.

Allison closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in a sharp, jagged motion. She needed that trust fund. Not for the money, but for the safety deposit box keys hidden inside the accounts. Keys that led straight to the 319 Project.

She forced her muscles to uncoil. She opened her eyes.

"I have a private matter to handle tomorrow," Allison said, her voice dropping back to a lazy drawl. "I'll be there the day after."

Sterling let out a harsh laugh. "Don't play games with me, Allison. You have forty-eight hours. Or you get nothing."

The line went dead.

Allison stared at the phone. She threw the crushed, mangled soda can across the room. It slammed into the metal trash bin ten yards away with a deafening crash.

"Are you... are you really going back to those people?" Ricky asked, his voice shaking.

Allison turned to the tool rack. She pulled a custom-made tactical knife from the magnetic strip. The blade caught the dim overhead light.

She bent down and slid the knife into the hidden sheath inside her black combat boot.

"Everything that belongs to me," Allison said softly, "I'm taking it back. With interest."

She walked over to the rusted sink in the corner. She grabbed a bar of gritty soap and scrubbed the oil from her hands. The cold water rushed over her left wrist, washing over the thick black band secured there.

A tiny red light on the band pulsed twice.

Her core temperature was dropping. The anger had triggered it.

Allison immediately reached into the front pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a small white pill and swallowed it dry. It scratched the back of her throat.

Within seconds, the freezing sensation in her veins began to recede. A faint flush of color returned to her pale cheeks. Her breathing leveled out.

She grabbed her heavy black leather jacket from a hook on the wall. She shoved her arms into the sleeves and zipped it all the way up to her chin, hiding the pale skin of her neck.

She walked out of the garage and swung her leg over her heavily modified black motorcycle. She pulled her matte black helmet over her head.

She kicked the starter. The bike let out a deafening, monstrous roar.

Allison twisted the throttle. The motorcycle shot out of the dirt lot like a bullet, tearing into the dark road toward the death tracks.