Chapter 4

The black Maybach drove through the thick morning fog. It approached the massive wrought-iron gates of the Monroe estate.

The gates swung open. The tires crunched loudly over the gravel driveway.

Arline leaned her head against the cold leather seat. She closed her eyes. Her chest ached with a dull, heavy pressure. She was not thinking about Edgardo. She was thinking about her father, Gary Monroe.

Gary was a former diplomat. He suffered from a rare, degenerative nerve disease.

The car stopped in front of the brick mansion.

Alfred Hemmings, the elderly butler of the Monroe family, stood on the front steps. He wore his standard black suit. He looked surprised to see the Maybach arrive at three in the morning.

Arline stepped out of the car. She raised her index finger to her lips, telling Alfred to be quiet. She did not want to wake her father.

She handed her grey coat to Alfred.

"How are his vitals, Alfred?" Arline asked in a low whisper.

Alfred kept his voice down. "Stable for now, Miss Arline. But we have a problem. The inventory for the experimental drug is critically low. We have less than one week of supply left."

Arline stopped walking. Her foot froze on the second wooden step of the staircase. Her fingers dug into the carved wooden railing.

The experimental drug. It was the only thing keeping Gary alive. And the patent for that drug was owned by Caldwell Pharmaceuticals.

Edgardo's family controlled her father's life. It was the ultimate physical barrier to her divorce.

Arline forced her lungs to take in air. She released her grip on the railing.

"Have the research files for the drug on my desk by morning," Arline commanded.

She walked up the stairs to the second floor. She walked down the long, dark hallway. Oil paintings of her ancestors stared down at her from the walls. She headed toward her old bedroom at the end of the hall.

The door to the guest room suddenly opened.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out into the hallway, blocking the dim light from the wall sconce.

Arline was looking down, thinking about the drug supply. She walked straight into a chest that felt as hard as a brick wall.

A scent hit her nose instantly. It was a sharp mix of cold mint and the faint, metallic smell of gunpowder.

Arline gasped. She lost her balance and fell backward.

A large hand shot out. Long, strong fingers clamped around her wrist like a steel vice. The grip stopped her from hitting the floor.

Arline jerked her head up.

She looked into a pair of pitch-black, freezing eyes.

It was Kipp Sandoval.

Kipp was the Director of a classified federal intelligence agency. In Washington D. C. , politicians called him the Reaper. He was a man who destroyed lives from the shadows.

The moment Arline recognized his face, her pupils dilated.

The smell of gunpowder dragged her brain back fifteen years. A dark basement. The sound of screaming. Blood pooling on a concrete floor.

Her body reacted before her brain could stop it. Violent tremors shook her arms and legs. She pulled back hard, trying to rip her wrist out of his grip.

Kipp felt her shaking. A microscopic flicker of pain crossed his dark eyes, but his face remained completely expressionless.

He immediately let go of her wrist. He took a half-step back, putting physical distance between them.

Arline stumbled backward. Her spine hit the wall of the hallway with a hard thud. She pressed her hands flat against the wallpaper, gasping for air as if she were drowning.

Kipp looked down at her. He looked at her wrinkled grey suit. He looked at her pale, terrified face. His jaw muscle twitched.

"Why are you running around your house like a ghost at this hour, Mrs. Caldwell?" Kipp asked. His voice was a low, mechanical rumble. It held zero warmth.

Arline bit the inside of her cheek. The pain helped clear the panic from her brain.

"This is my house, Director Sandoval," Arline said. Her voice shook, but she forced herself to glare at him. "I do not need to explain myself to a guest."

Kipp's eyes dropped to her wrist. His fingers had left faint red marks on her pale skin. His jaw tightened further.

He did not argue with her.

"I just finished a confidential meeting with Gary," Kipp said flatly. "I am leaving."

Arline stayed pressed against the wall. She watched him like a cornered animal watching a predator. She did not say a word. Her silence was a demand for him to leave.

Kipp stared at her for one long second. His dark eyes seemed to scan the deepest parts of her brain.

He turned away and walked down the hall. His footsteps were completely silent.

Arline waited until she heard the front door close downstairs.

Her legs gave out. She slid down the wall and hit the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees, her heart slamming against her ribs. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to count her breaths. One, two, three. The phantom smell of blood and gunpowder lingered in her nostrils, threatening to drag her back into the darkest memory of her life. She dug her fingernails into her own arms, using the physical sting to anchor herself to the present. "I am not that helpless girl anymore," she whispered into the dark, her voice trembling but resolute. "I survived then, and I will survive now." She stayed on the cold floor for five long minutes, methodically burying the terror Kipp had unearthed, locking it back into its iron box until her heartbeat finally returned to a steady, normal rhythm.