The wind howled, driving the rain like needles against Annabell's helmet visor. The water blurred the streetlights into smeared streaks of yellow and red.
She leaned low over the gas tank, her thighs gripping the metal. Her knuckles were white inside her leather gloves as she fought to keep the heavy motorcycle stable on the slick asphalt of the cross-sea bridge.
Up ahead, a wall of flashing red and blue lights erupted through the darkness. Four NYPD cruisers blocked the intersection. Uniformed officers were setting up spike strips. Harrison Dixon's lockdown order was in full effect.
Annabell slammed on the brakes.
The tires shrieked against the wet pavement. The heavy bike fishtailed violently, the back wheel sliding out. She wrestled the handlebars, forcing the machine back under control just inches before the barricade line.
To avoid the cops rushing toward her, she wrenched the handlebars to the right, gunning the engine, and shot down a narrow, unlit one-way street.
The alley was pitch black. A custom, pure black Maybach sat parked tight against the curb, completely swallowed by the shadows.
Annabell saw it a second too late.
The motorcycle's tires lost traction on a metal grate. The bike slid sideways. The heavy metal footpeg scraped down the entire right side of the Maybach's passenger door.
A horrific, screeching sound of tearing metal echoed off the brick walls. Sparks flew in the rain as the million-dollar paint job was gutted.
The impact threw Annabell. She hit the flooded pavement hard, rolling twice before slamming into a pile of trash bags. A sharp, blinding pain shot up her right arm.
She gritted her teeth. She planted her hands in the freezing puddle and pushed herself up to her knees. Rain poured off her chin.
The driver's side door of the Maybach flew open.
Dave Ware, a mountain of a man in a tailored suit, stormed out into the rain. He marched straight toward her, his face dark with fury.
"Do you have any idea whose car you just hit?" Dave roared, pointing at the massive gouge in the door. "Take that helmet off. Now."
Annabell stood up slowly. She didn't touch her helmet. She reached into her wet jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled, waterlogged insurance card. She held it out.
Dave slapped her hand away. The card fluttered into the muddy water. He lunged forward, his massive hands reaching to rip the helmet off her head.
Annabell's eyes narrowed behind the dark visor. She pivoted on her heel, dropping her shoulder to evade his grasp, and drove her elbow straight into Dave's solar plexus.
Dave grunted, the air rushing out of his lungs. He stumbled back two steps, his eyes wide with shock. He hadn't expected a woman of her size to hit like a freight train.
He recovered instantly, his fists clenching.
Before he could swing, the rear window of the Maybach rolled down exactly one-third of the way.
The faint amber glow of the reading light spilled out. It illuminated a sharp jawline and long, elegant fingers casually flipping a silver lighter open and shut.
"Stand down, Dave," a voice commanded.
The voice was low, cold, and laced with an absolute, terrifying authority that cut straight through the sound of the rain.
Dave froze. He immediately stepped back, lowering his head, not even daring to breathe too loudly.
Knox Beck turned his head slightly. His eyes-dark, bottomless, and utterly lethal-locked onto Annabell through the gap in the window.
Annabell met his stare through her wet visor. Her heart gave a hard, involuntary thump against her ribs. The physical pressure of the man's aura was suffocating.
Knox let out a low, lazy chuckle. "And how exactly do you plan to pay for a two-million-dollar armored vehicle, little bird?"
Annabell calculated the distance to her bike. This man wasn't just rich. He was dangerous. The kind of dangerous that made people disappear.
She stayed silent. She slowly reached toward her pocket, pretending to look for her phone, while her eyes darted to the motorcycle to check if the front fork was bent.
Knox saw the shift in her stance. He pushed his door open.
A long leg clad in dark trousers stepped out into the rain. His leather shoe splashed into a puddle. He stood up, a massive, explosive frame hidden beneath a bespoke black suit. He snapped open a black umbrella and began to walk toward her.
With every step he took, the scent of cedar and dark tobacco rolled over Annabell, thick and invasive.
Knox stopped half a step away from her. He towered over her. The shadow of his umbrella completely blocked out the faint streetlights, plunging them into absolute darkness.
He slowly raised his right hand. The black leather glove creaked. He clamped his fingers hard around the bottom edge of her helmet.
