From Trash To Treasure: Masked Heiress

Three figures appeared at the end of the alley. Red laser sights cut through the darkness, scanning the ground where Braylon had just been lying.

Ivy Goff crumpled the paper into a tight ball. The red ink on the page was still vivid in her mind, a sea of Fs that she had carefully curated over the semester. She tossed the ball into the metal trash can near the school exit. It hit the rim with a hollow clang and fell in.

She pushed open the heavy double doors. The rain hit her instantly. It wasn't a drizzle. It was a deluge that soaked through her thin uniform shirt in seconds. She opened her black umbrella, but the wind threatened to turn it inside out.

Ivy walked toward the back of the gymnasium. It was a shortcut to the parking lot, a narrow alley lined with dumpsters and old equipment. The smell of wet asphalt usually dominated here, but tonight, something else cut through the petrichor.

Copper.

The metallic tang was thick in the humid air. Ivy stopped. She adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses, which were fogging up from the humidity. A flash of lightning illuminated the alley for a split second.

A man lay in the mud near the dumpster.

He was face down. A dark pool expanded beneath him, mixing with the rainwater running toward the drain. Ivy stepped closer, her sneakers squelching in the mud. She saw the handle of a knife protruding from his lower abdomen.

Braylon Lancaster lay there, his breathing shallow and ragged. His expensive suit was ruined, the fabric torn and stained. His fingers clawed at the wet pavement, scraping until the nails broke.

Ivy looked down at him. Her face remained blank.

He was a variable she hadn't accounted for. If she called the police, they would ask questions. They would want statements. Her name would be in a report. Her carefully constructed invisibility would crack.

She turned her heel.

She took one step away. Then two.

A hand shot out and clamped around her ankle.

The grip was bruising. It wasn't a plea for help. It was a demand. Ivy looked down. The man's hand was covered in blood and mud, ruining her white sock.

She tried to shake him off. He held on tighter. His knuckles were white. Even half-dead, his survival instinct was terrifying.

Ivy sighed. The sound was lost in the roar of the rain. She crouched down. She pressed two fingers against the side of his neck.

His pulse was thready. Erratic. She did the math in her head. Thirty percent chance of survival if moved. Ninety percent chance of police involvement if left.

She stood up and pried his fingers off her ankle one by one.

"Bad investment," she thought. "Die quietly."

She walked away. The man let out a low, guttural growl of pain behind her. It was the sound of an animal refusing to accept its fate.

Ivy stopped ten meters away.

She thought of her father. She thought of the silence in the house before he disappeared.

If she left him, the janitor would find the body in the morning. The school would be swarming with cops. They would check cameras. They would see her entering the alley.

Ivy clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She turned around.

She dropped the umbrella. It tumbled away in the wind. She swung her backpack around and unzipped a hidden compartment at the bottom. She pulled out a small, nondescript metal tin.

She knelt beside him again. She grabbed the collar of his shirt and ripped it open. Buttons popped off and pinged against the dumpster.

Braylon opened his eyes. His vision was swimming, but he saw a girl. She looked like a ghost in the rain.

Ivy pulled out a silver needle. She didn't hesitate. She pressed it into the pressure point near his sternum. Then another near his shoulder.

Braylon tried to speak. Ivy clamped her hand over his mouth.

"Shut up or I finish the job."

Her voice was flat. Cold.

She pulled a tube of clear gel from her pocket. It was a compound not sold in pharmacies. She squeezed it directly onto the wound around the knife.

Braylon flinched. The gel felt like liquid nitrogen. But the burning heat in his gut began to subside. His eyes focused on her face. He tried to memorize her features, but the rain blurred everything.

Ivy worked fast. She applied a pressure pad from her kit and wrapped it tight. She pulled his arm over her shoulder.

Footsteps echoed from the mouth of the alley. They were heavy. Purposeful. Then came the soft thwip of a silencer.

Ivy stiffened. She hauled Braylon up. He was heavy, dead weight against her side.

She dragged him into the shadows of the equipment shed. The door was broken, hanging off one hinge. She pushed him inside and pressed him against the cold concrete wall.

She covered his mouth with her hand again. Her skin smelled like rain and antiseptic.

The lead hitman, Pierce, signaled with two fingers. The three men fanned out. They moved with the precision of professionals.

Braylon leaned against the damp wall of the shed. His hand drifted to his waist, searching for his gun. His fingers brushed empty leather. He let out a silent, frustrated breath.

Ivy felt him move. She turned her head and glared at him. Her eyes were dark behind the rain-splattered lenses.

A beam of light swept across the broken window of the shed. It caught the tips of Ivy's wet hair.

She didn't panic. She scanned the floor. Debris, old gym mats, broken glass. She picked up a jagged shard of a mirror. It was about six inches long.

The hitman approached the window. He leaned in to look.

Ivy moved.

She didn't lunge. She exploded upward. The glass shard slashed across the man's wrist. It was a precise cut, deep enough to sever the tendons and the artery.

The man dropped his gun. He opened his mouth to scream, but Ivy kicked him in the solar plexus. He stumbled back, colliding with the man behind him.

Pierce spun around. He aimed his weapon at the shed door.

Ivy didn't go through the door. She grabbed Braylon by his belt and shoved him toward the back wall. The wood was rotten from years of neglect. They hit it together.

The wall splintered. They tumbled out into the muddy service lane behind the school.

Braylon groaned as his wound stretched. The pain was blinding.

Ivy didn't offer comfort. She grabbed his collar and hauled him up.

"Move," she hissed.

They ran. Ivy was fast, surprisingly strong for her frame. But they weren't fast enough.

Pierce and the remaining shooter rounded the corner. They blocked the exit to the main street.

Braylon leaned against a brick wall, sliding down slightly. He looked at Ivy.

"Leave," he wheezed. "Not your fight."

Ivy looked at him. Then she looked at the men blocking their path. She felt a surge of irritation.

"Shut up," she said. "You are my patient now."

Pierce raised his gun. The silencer looked like a black hole in the dim street light.

"No witnesses," Pierce said.

Ivy reached into her pocket. She didn't pull out a weapon. She pulled out a coin. It was black and gold, heavy in her palm.

Pierce squeezed the trigger.

Ivy threw herself to the side, dragging Braylon with her. The bullet chipped the brick inches from her head. A fragment of stone cut her cheek.

She sat up. Her eyes were terrifyingly calm. She tossed the coin.

It clattered on the wet pavement and rolled, coming to a stop at Pierce's feet.

Pierce looked down. The streetlamp reflected off the metal. He saw the twin serpents entwined around a dagger.

The Serpent's Eye.

Pierce froze. His finger hovered over the trigger. Sweat broke out on his forehead, mixing with the rain.

Every mercenary in the city knew that symbol. It belonged to Deondre Pittman. It meant the bearer was under the personal protection of the Syndicate's head.

Pierce lowered the gun. He looked at the girl. She was soaked, muddy, and bleeding, but she looked at him with bored arrogance.

She pointed a finger toward the end of the alley.

Pierce swallowed. He couldn't risk it. If she really was connected to Pittman, killing her would mean a slow, agonizing death for him and everyone he knew.

He signaled his men. They backed away, disappearing into the darkness as quickly as they had come.

Braylon stared at Ivy. He was losing consciousness, the adrenaline fading.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

Ivy didn't answer. She dragged him toward her beat-up Ford Fiesta parked at the curb. She opened the back door and shoved him inside like a bag of laundry.

The Ford rattled as Ivy drove through the service entrance of the Goff estate. She killed the headlights before turning onto the gravel path that led to the kitchen.

Braylon lay across the backseat. The bleeding had slowed, thanks to the gel, but he was pale. He watched the back of her head. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm on her thigh.

She parked behind a row of hedges.

"Get out," she said.

She opened the back door and pulled him out. He leaned heavily on her. They stumbled across the wet grass toward the back door.

Ivy kicked the door open. The kitchen was warm. The smell of cinnamon tea hung in the air.

A light flicked on.

Joette Goff stood by the island counter, clutching her robe. She dropped her mug. It shattered, tea splashing across the pristine tiles.

"Oh my god!" Joette screamed. "Ivy!"

Ivy clamped a hand over her mother's mouth instantly.

"Mom, quiet," Ivy whispered harshly. "It is a hit and run victim."

Joette's eyes were wide with terror. She looked at Braylon, at the blood soaking his shirt and Ivy's uniform.

"We need to call 911," Joette whimpered against Ivy's hand.

"No police," Ivy said. She removed her hand but kept her gaze intense. "He has no insurance. I will handle it."

Joette blinked. She was used to Ivy taking charge. She nodded, her hands trembling.

"I... I will get towels," Joette said.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs. Heavy, deliberate steps.

"Mrs. Goff? Is everything alright?"

It was Mrs. Pringle, the housekeeper. Her voice was like sandpaper wrapped in velvet.

Ivy's eyes narrowed. She shoved Braylon into the pantry cupboard under the stairs. She slammed the door shut and leaned her back against it.

Mrs. Pringle appeared in the doorway, her gaze sweeping across the entire kitchen: the shattered mug, the puddles and mud smudges on the floor, and the faint red streak of blood on Ivy's arm.

"I stepped in a puddle," Ivy said in a flat, emotionless voice. "It startled Mom. Go back to bed."

Mrs. Pringle didn't move. Her eyes lingered on the bloodstain for a long moment, and she sniffed sharply at the air, searching for any chink in the story, any trace of something amiss-but found nothing.

"You ought to be more careful, Miss Ivy," Mrs. Pringle said, her voice tight with tension. "That was a nasty fall."

Ivy stared straight at her, not blinking once.

"Go to bed, Pringle."

The housekeeper forced a stiff, fake smile and turned to leave. But she didn't head upstairs; Ivy heard her pause in the hallway outside.

Ivy waited a full minute, and only when the footsteps finally continued on did she unlock the pantry door.

Braylon tumbled out. Ivy caught him.

She practically dragged him up the back stairs to her room. She dumped him onto her bed. The duvet was pink and fluffy. It smelled of lavender.

Ivy locked the door. She went to her bookshelf and pulled a specific book. The shelf clicked and swung open slightly, revealing a high-intensity surgical lamp.

She dragged a heavy case from under the bed. She opened it. Scalpels, clamps, sutures, a portable defibrillator.

Braylon watched her through half-lidded eyes.

"Standard issue for high school girls?" he rasped.

"Only for the ones who expect trouble," Ivy said.

She cut his pants open to check his leg. Then she moved to his abdomen. She threaded a curved needle.

"I don't have anesthesia," she said.

"Do your worst," Braylon muttered.

She began to stitch. Her hands were steady. Every time the needle pierced his skin, Braylon's muscles seized. He bit his lip until it bled, but he didn't make a sound.

Ivy watched his face. She respected the silence. Most men screamed.

She finished the knot and snipped the thread. She injected a syringe of antibiotics into his thigh, followed by a sedative.

Braylon's eyes grew heavy. The pain dulled to a throb. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His fingers were weak now.

"Name," he whispered.

Ivy pulled her hand away. She packed the tools back into the box.

"None of your business."

She watched him succumb to the drugs. Outside her door, in the hallway, Mrs. Pringle typed a text message on her phone.Yes, she hadn't actually left at all. She'd seized the chance when the moment slipped, and snapped a photo.