The clock struck 2:00 AM.
The estate was asleep.
Delia changed. The silk dress was replaced by black tactical cargo pants and a fitted long-sleeve thermal. She pulled her hair into a tight braid and shoved it under a black cap.
She bypassed the hallway sensors-she had installed the update herself last summer, leaving a backdoor in the code. She slipped out the second-story window, dropping onto the terrace, then vaulting over the railing to the grass.
She didn't take her car.
She went to the back of the garage, under a tarp. Her Ducati.
She rolled it down the driveway in neutral until she was a mile away. Then she kicked the starter. The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through her chest.
She tore down the highway. Speed was the only thing that cleared her head.
She headed downtown. To the gritty district where the streetlights were broken and the shadows had teeth.
She stopped in front of a dusty bookstore called Ink & Paper.
She knocked on the metal shutter. Three times fast. Two slow.
A slat slid open. Eyes peered out.
"We're closed," a voice rasped.
"I'm looking for a first edition of 'Southern Rain'," she said.
The shutter rattled up.
She walked in. The smell of old paper and stale coffee hit her. She walked straight to the back, pushing aside a heavy velvet curtain.
The Archive.
It was a room filled with servers and terminals. The information hub of the underworld.
She sat at a terminal. She needed leverage on Killian.
She typed his name.
Warning: Level 10 Encryption.
She started the bypass sequence. Her fingers were a blur. Her mind raced. Accessing this terminal was risky. If Killian had traced her earlier hack at the club, he might have flagged her digital signature. She was counting on the anonymity of The Archive, but a man who scrubs the internet might own the library too.
Suddenly, the lights cut out. Red emergency strobes began to flash.
Intruder Alert.
Not her.
The front door of the bookstore exploded inward.
Men in tactical gear poured in. Automatic gunfire shredded the bookshelves.
"Clear the room!" someone shouted.
Delia dove behind a heavy oak desk. Wood splinters rained down on her. This wasn't a police raid. This was a hit. And the timing was too perfect. Either she had led them here, or this place was already compromised.
A mercenary rounded the desk. He saw her. He raised his rifle.
She didn't think. She moved.
She swept his leg, grabbing the barrel of the rifle and driving the stock into his throat. He gagged and dropped. She pulled a knife from her boot-a ceramic blade, invisible to detectors-and spun.
Another man rushed her. She ducked his swing, slashing the tendon behind his knee. He went down screaming.
She needed an exit. The back door.
She sprinted through the chaos, dodging gunfire. She burst into the alleyway.
Rain was falling again.
She ran toward her bike, but a black SUV swerved into the alley, blocking her path.
She raised her knife, ready to fight.
The rear window rolled down.
Killian Gibson sat there. He was illuminated by the streetlamp. He looked calm. Bored, even.
He looked at the knife in her hand. Then at the blood on her shirt-not hers.
"Get in," he said.
Bullets chipped the brick wall next to her head.
She didn't hesitate. She ripped the door open and dove into the backseat.
"Go," Killian ordered.
The driver floored it. The Maybach surged forward, leaving the alley and the gunfire behind.
Delia sat up, breathing hard. The adrenaline was crashing. Her hand was still gripping the knife so hard her knuckles were white. He was here. He knew. He had either ordered the raid or was watching the place waiting for a rat to scurry out. And she had run straight into his car.
Killian turned to her. He held out a pristine white handkerchief.
"Wipe your hand," he said softly. "You're getting blood on my Italian leather."
She looked at him. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't asking why the "spoiled heiress" just neutralized two mercenaries.
She took the handkerchief. "Thanks."
