The power drill screamed through the thick afternoon heat inside the Pine Creek garage.
Allison was bent halfway under the hood of a wrecked Mustang, motor oil and stale sweat pasted to her skin.
Ricky, the teenage apprentice, stood three feet away with a wrench in his hand. His eyes were wide. He couldn’t keep up with her hands—they moved fast, greasy, and sure, stripping 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 deep rumble shaking through the concrete floor.
“Holy shit,” Ricky breathed out, stepping back. That engine was supposed to be scrap metal.
Allison didn’t smile. She tossed a filthy rag onto the hood. Her face was blank, jaw set like concrete.
On the metal workbench behind her, a cracked cell phone started vibrating violently. The caller ID flashed a number from Aethelgard.
Allison’s stomach tightened. A cold, oily disgust coated the back of her throat. She wiped a streak of grease from her thumb and hit speaker.
“Stop playing around in the dirt, Allison.”
Sterling Conner’s voice filled the garage. Arrogant. Impatient. The voice of a man who thought he owned the world.
Allison let out a slow breath and reached for a half-empty can of cola on the bench.
“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 sharp hiss cut through the garage.
“Dream on,” she said, flat and dead.
A sharp intake of breath came from the other end. Sterling wasn’t used to hearing no.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” he snarled, his voice climbing. “You think you have a choice?”
Allison took a sip. The icy burn slid down her throat. She said nothing.
“If you aren’t standing in my foyer by tomorrow,” Sterling dropped his voice to a lethal register, “I will permanently freeze your mother’s trust fund. Every single cent.”
The word mother hit her like a fist to the gut.
Her fingers clamped down on the can. The aluminum shrieked and crumpled. Cola spilled over her knuckles and dripped onto the concrete.
Ricky took another step back, his shoulder blades hitting the tool rack. The air in the garage turned heavy. He stared at the girl, heart hammering against his ribs.
Allison closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in a sharp, jagged motion. She needed that trust fund. Not for the money, but for the safety deposit box keys hidden inside the accounts. Keys that led straight to the 319 Project.
She forced her muscles to uncoil. Her eyes opened.
“I have a private matter to handle tomorrow,” she said, her 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 ten yards away with a deafening crash.
“Are you... are you really going back to those people?” Ricky asked, his 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 in the corner, grabbed a bar of gritty soap, and scrubbed the oil from her hands. The 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 core temperature was dropping. The anger had triggered it.
Allison reached into the front pocket of her jeans, 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 recede. A faint flush of 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 let out a deafening roar.
Allison twisted the throttle. The motorcycle tore out of the dirt lot and shot into the dark road toward the death tracks.
