He did.
I took the Aston Martin—fast, maneuverable, and equipped with the kind of security features that made it useful for situations like this. The warehouse district was twenty minutes away in light traffic. I made it in twelve.
The address Neville sent me led to a sprawling industrial complex—rusted metal buildings, broken pavement, the kind of place people came when they didn’t want to be found.
Marcus’s car was parked outside Unit 14.
I parked two buildings away and approached on foot, staying in the shadows. The warehouse door was partially open, light spilling out into the desert evening.
I could hear voices inside. Marcus, and someone else. Male. Clipped professional tones.
I moved closer, staying low, using the old machinery and shipping containers as cover.
“…not working,” Marcus was saying. “The lawsuit’s not going to stop them. They’re still throwing the party and going ahead with the announcement.”
“Then we move to contingency,” the other voice said. I didn’t recognize it. “The gala gives us perfect cover. The venue is crowded, has multiple exits, and is filled with chaos and confusion. You set the charges and trigger them during the announcement. The building collapses, everyone dies, and it looks like structural failure or terrorism.”
My blood froze.
“Four targets,” Marcus said. “And an unknown number of guests who may die in the collapse. That’s a lot of collateral damage.”
“That’s why the investors are paying extra. They want this done cleanly, but if clean isn’t possible, messy works too. Dead billionaires sell hotels just as well as disgraced ones.”
“And my exit strategy?”
“Helicopter extraction from the roof thirty seconds before the charges blow. You’ll be in Mexico before anyone realizes what happened.”
I’d heard enough.
I stepped into the doorway, and both men turned. Marcus’s hand went to his weapon—because of course he was armed—but I was faster. The other man didn’t wait around and slipped out a back door.
I’d spent twenty years studying Krav Maga, combat training that prioritized speed and efficiency over elegance. Marcus might be former intelligence, but I’d been preparing for threats like him since my parents died and left me responsible for everything.
I closed the distance between us before he could draw, striking his wrist to disable his gun hand, then driving my elbowinto his solar plexus. He stumbled back, gasping, and I followed with a knee to his gut that doubled him over.
He recovered faster than expected—professional training showing—and came at me with a flurry of strikes that I barely blocked. We grappled, crashed into a workbench, and sent tools and equipment scattering.
He was trained and dangerous.
But I was fighting for Tashi, my brothers, and our future.
I fought furiously.
We traded blows—brutal, efficient, and with no wasted movement. He caught me with a punch to the ribs that cracked something. I returned with a strike to his jaw that sent him reeling.
“You can’t stop this,” Marcus spat, blood running from his mouth. “They’ll keep coming.”
“Then we’ll keep fighting.” I grabbed his shirt and slammed him against the wall. “But you? You’re done. No gala bombing, helicopter extraction, no Mexico. You’re going to prison, and you’re going to tell the authorities everything about who conspired against us and why.”
“Or what?”
A sharp pain exploded at the base of my skull. The man who’d run—he hadn’t left. He’d circled back. Everything went black.
I woke in the dark, dust in my mouth and my head throbbing, but my hands and feet weren’t bound. Touching the back of my head confirmed that blood had crusted there from where that man hit me. My ribs screamed with every breath—definitely cracked. Perhaps they had kicked me, literally, when I was down.
I listened and heard nothing but the sounds of the highway a thousand feet away and the mournful sighing of the wind rustling through the desert’s creosote and bunchgrass. I reached for my phone and found it gone.
“Fabulous.”
