Return Of The Lethal Unwanted Heiress

The power drill screamed through the thick afternoon heat inside the Pine Creek garage.

Allison was bent over a wrecked Mustang's engine, motor oil and sweat sticking to her skin. Ricky, the teenage apprentice, stood three feet away with a wrench in his hand, eyes wide. He couldn't follow her movements-she stripped wires before he could blink.

She grabbed a tangled knot of cables and yanked hard.

The dead engine coughed once. Then it roared to life, the rumble shaking through the concrete floor.

"Holy shit," Ricky breathed, stepping back.

Allison didn't smile. She tossed a filthy rag onto the hood. Her face was blank, jaw tight.

A cracked cell phone vibrated on the metal workbench behind her. The caller ID flashed a number from Aethelgard.

Allison's stomach dropped. Something cold and sour coated the back of her throat. She wiped her thumb on her pants and hit speaker.

"Stop playing around in the dirt, Allison."

Sterling Conner's voice filled the garage. Arrogant. Impatient.

Allison let out a slow breath and reached for a half-empty can of cola.

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

She hooked her finger under the tab and popped it open. The hiss cut through the garage.

"Dream on," she said.

A sharp intake of breath came from the other end.

"You ungrateful little bitch," he snarled. "You think you have a choice?"

Allison took a sip. The cold burned down her throat. She said nothing.

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

The word hit her like a punch to the gut.

Her fingers clamped down on the can. The aluminum crumpled. Cola spilled over her knuckles and dripped onto the concrete.

Ricky backed into the tool rack, his shoulder blades hitting metal. He stared at her, heart hammering.

Allison closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell fast. She needed that trust fund. Not for the money-for the safety deposit box keys hidden inside the accounts. Keys that led straight to the 319 Project.

She forced her muscles to loosen. Her eyes opened.

"I have a private matter to handle tomorrow," she said, 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. Then she hurled the crushed can across the room. It slammed into the metal trash bin with a deafening crash.

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

She turned to the tool rack and pulled a custom tactical knife from the magnetic strip. The blade caught the dim light. She bent down and slid it 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 to the rusted sink, grabbed a bar of gritty soap, and scrubbed the oil from her hands. 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 fingers were going numb. The anger had triggered it.

Allison reached into her front pocket, 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 fade. Color returned to her pale cheeks. Her breathing leveled out.

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

Outside, she swung her leg over her heavily modified black motorcycle and pulled her matte black helmet over her head. She kicked the starter. The bike roared.

Allison twisted the throttle. The motorcycle tore out of the dirt lot and shot into the dark road.

Morning fog still clung to the cracked highway leading into Pine Creek. A sudden, violent shudder ripped through the chassis of the black Maybach. The engine gave a pathetic metallic grind and died.

Pierce slammed his fist against the dashboard. "Dammit! Zero cell service out here."

In the back seat, Graham pushed his door open and stepped out onto the gravel. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit jacket pulling tight across his back. His jaw was sharp, dark eyes scanning the empty landscape without a flicker of panic.

Pierce scrambled out, staring at the white smoke pouring from under the hood. "We are going to miss the briefing tonight. In this godforsaken wasteland."

Graham didn't look at him. He raised his right hand, thumb finding the heavy black ring on his pinky finger. He twisted it once.

"Fresh tire tracks heading two miles up the road," he said, voice low and steady. "There's a shop."

They started walking. Loose gravel crunched under their leather shoes. Dust coated the expensive leather immediately.

They rounded a sharp bend. A dilapidated corrugated iron structure came into view. Faded, aggressive graffiti covered the walls.

Pierce pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've got to be kidding me. You think some backwoods hick in that dump can fix a V12 engine?"

Graham ignored him and walked straight toward the half-open rolling metal door. The sharp clank of metal hitting metal echoed from inside.

They stepped into the dim, dusty interior. The air smelled of rust and old gasoline.

Graham's eyes adjusted to the shadows. He stopped.

Ten feet away, someone was lying flat on a mechanic's creeper, slid halfway under the chassis of a lifted truck. Grease-stained cargo pants. Long, straight legs bent at the knees.

The metallic clanking stopped.

With a swift, fluid motion, the creeper rolled out from under the truck. Allison sat up.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, streaks of grease smeared across one sharp cheekbone. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and completely empty of welcome.

Pierce froze. His mouth opened slightly.

Graham's gaze dropped to her right hand. She was casually gripping a heavy-duty wrench. His eyes narrowed. He could smell it on her-not just grease, but something sharper. Blood and adrenaline.

Pierce recovered and plastered on his signature playboy smile. He took a step forward. "Hey there. Is the boss around?"

Allison didn't blink. She tossed the heavy wrench onto a metal table. It landed with a loud crash.

"Get out," she said. One word. Flat and sharp.

Pierce's smile vanished. He choked on his next breath.

Graham stepped forward, smoothly placing himself in front of Pierce. His presence instantly dominated the cramped space.

"Our car broke down," Graham said. His voice was deep, carrying the weight of a man used to giving orders. "Name your price."

Allison finally shifted her gaze to Graham.

Their eyes locked. The air in the garage tightened.

She took in the perfect cut of his suit, then her eyes flicked to his left wrist. A limited-edition Patek Philippe. A walking ATM.

She picked up a filthy rag and slowly wiped the grease from her fingers. The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

"Five figures. Cash. Upfront."

Pierce let out an angry laugh. "Five figures? For a backwoods mechanic?" He reached into his jacket for his black card.

Graham raised a single hand. Pierce stopped dead.

Graham reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. He walked to the greasy metal table and slammed the cash down.

Allison stared at the money. Her heart rate didn't change. She swept the stack into her pocket without a word of thanks.

She snapped her fingers. Ricky jumped from the shadows in the corner.

"Take the rig. Go get their car."

Ricky scrambled out the door, fired up the rusted tow truck, and peeled out of the lot.

Silence fell over the garage.

Graham walked over to a half-assembled motorcycle sitting on a stand. His eyes traced the exposed exhaust pipes.

"The welding on this manifold," Graham said casually, not looking at her, "is professional-grade racing spec. Not something you learn in a small-town shop."

Allison's spine went rigid. The muscles in her arms tightened.

She moved fast, stepping directly between Graham and the bike. Her chest was inches from his arm.

"Don't touch my things," she warned, voice dropping to a whisper. "Or I'll break your fingers."

Graham looked down at her. She was glaring at him like a cornered leopard. He didn't feel insulted. Something dark and fascinated sparked in his chest.

The screech of the tow truck's brakes shattered the silence. Ricky backed the rig into the center of the garage and dropped the Maybach onto the concrete with a heavy thud.

Pierce winced. "Hey! Watch the undercarriage, you animal!"

Allison ignored him. She grabbed a heavy black toolbox and walked to the front of the luxury car. She shoved her fingers under the edge of the hood and forced it up.

A massive cloud of boiling white steam exploded from the engine bay.

Allison didn't flinch. She didn't step back. The scalding mist washed over her face, her expression completely dead.

Graham stood three yards away, arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes locked onto her.

She pulled on a pair of thick rubber gloves and plunged her hands into the burning maze of V12 engine wiring. Her fingers moved fast, navigating the components like she'd built them herself.

Ten seconds later, she pulled her hands out, peeled off the gloves, and tossed them aside.

"The ECU overloaded," she said coldly. "It locked the fuel injection system."

Pierce scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. "You didn't even hook up an OBD scanner! You expect me to believe you diagnosed a computer failure by looking at it?"

Allison didn't waste breath answering. She reached into her toolbox and pulled out a massive, solid steel hammer. She weighed it in her hand.

Pierce's eyes bulged. He lunged forward. "Are you out of your mind? Put that down!"

Allison didn't look at him. She swung her arm back. The heavy hammer sliced through the air, missing Pierce's nose by an inch. He stumbled backward.

Without hesitating, she brought the hammer down.

CRASH.

The steel head smashed into a pristine metal shielding plate deep inside the engine bay. The plate shattered, exposing a cluster of melted, blackened wires hidden underneath.

Pierce stared at the burnt wires, mouth hanging open.

Graham's breath caught. His top engineers in Washington needed hours and a million dollars in diagnostic equipment to find a fault like that. She found it in ten seconds.

Allison dropped the hammer. It clattered against the concrete. She grabbed a pair of wire cutters and a spool of thick copper wire.

She stripped the wires with her bare hands and twisted the copper together, bypassing the burnt circuits. Sparks flew, biting into the skin of her wrists. She didn't even blink.

Three minutes later, she ripped a piece of electrical tape with her teeth and wrapped it tight. She stepped back.

She looked at Ricky and jerked her chin toward the driver's seat. "Start it."

Ricky swallowed hard, opened the door, slid in, and pushed the ignition button.

The Maybach's engine turned over instantly, settling into a smooth, powerful purr.

Pierce walked around the front of the car, eyes wide. He checked the dashboard. No warning lights. He looked back at the girl.

Allison peeled off the rubber gloves and threw them on the bench. She walked straight up to Graham and held out her hand, palm stained with fresh motor oil.

"Double the price."

Graham looked at her hand, then up to her face. The corner of his mouth twitched.

He reached into his jacket again and pulled out another stack of bills. Instead of dropping them into her hand, he pressed the money firmly into her palm.

His thumb deliberately brushed against her skin. He felt the thick, hard calluses at the base of her fingers. Calluses that didn't come from turning wrenches.

Allison jerked her hand back. Her eyes flashed.

"Watch your hands," she hissed.

Graham held his hands up in mock surrender, but his eyes were entirely serious. "Skills like that are wasted in a place like this."

Allison shoved the money into her pocket. "None of your business. The car runs. Get out."

Pierce stepped forward, his tone shifting into genuine respect. "Seriously, what's your name? If this thing breaks down again, I'm calling you."

Allison turned her back to them and waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder. She didn't give them a name.

Graham got into the back seat of the Maybach and rolled down the tinted window, his eyes burning into her retreating back.

As the car pulled out of the dirt lot, Graham pulled a heavily encrypted satellite phone from his pocket and dialed a secure line.

"I want everything," he ordered, voice cold. "Pull the background on the owner of the Pine Creek garage. Every breath she's ever taken."