A gray Toyota Camry with a dented bumper idled in the alleyway behind a bodega in Brooklyn. The back door flew open, and Katharina dove inside, dripping wet.
Chloe, a woman with purple hair and a nose ring, sat in the driver's seat. Without a word, she tossed a towel and a bundle of clothes into the back.
"Huff security is sweeping the credit card records," Chloe said, her eyes on the rearview mirror. "They're looking for hotels."
Katharina stripped off the sodden black dress. She shoved the designer fabric into a trash bag like it was dirty laundry. She pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.
"Let them look," Katharina said. She opened a laptop that was wedged between the seats. She connected to a secure hotspot.
Lines of code reflected in her eyes. This was her domain. Not the gala, not the penthouse. This.
"Mrs. Higgins just got fired," Chloe said softly.
Katharina's fingers froze on the keyboard. "What?"
"She tried to tell Grafton about the medication schedule. He thought she was spying for you. Harlow brought in her own 'wellness team'."
Katharina closed her eyes for a second. Mrs. Higgins was the only one who knew how to mix the compounds without triggering the side effects.
"He's going to crash," Katharina whispered. Then she opened her eyes. "Focus. What's the job?"
"Hedge fund manager. West Village. Overdose. He doesn't want an ambulance record."
Katharina typed a command. "Get the Naloxone and the rapid chelation kit."
Her old phone-the sleek iPhone Grafton paid for-rang in her bag. The screen lit up: Arthur Sterling (Lawyer).
Katharina looked at it. She didn't answer. She popped the SIM card tray open with a paperclip. She took the tiny chip, snapped it in half, and rolled down the window. She flicked the pieces into a puddle.
"What if they trace the medical IP to the shell companies?" Chloe asked, merging into traffic.
"They won't," Katharina said. "They don't read code. They only read bank statements."
In the penthouse, Grafton rubbed his chest. A dull ache was spreading behind his sternum. He frowned, massaging the muscle.
"You okay, baby?" Harlow asked. She was sitting on the floor of the closet, pulling out Katharina's vintage Chanel jackets.
"Just stress," Grafton grunted. "Heartburn."
Harlow jumped up. She grabbed a bottle of orange pills from her bag. "Here. Take this. It's a high-potency vitamin blend. My yoga instructor swears by it. It'll clear that energy block."
Grafton looked at the pill. It looked generic. But Harlow looked so concerned, so attentive.
"You're good to me," he said. He swallowed the pill dry.
"Without her negative energy, this house already feels lighter," Harlow said, kissing his cheek.
Grafton nodded. The pain in his chest didn't go away, but he convinced himself it was fading. "Much better."
Katharina knelt on the floor of a luxury loft in the West Village. A man in a three-piece suit was convulsing on the rug, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth.
She moved with mechanical precision. Tourniquet. Vein. Injection.
"Easy," she murmured. "Breathe."
The man gasped, his eyes flying open. He sucked in air like a drowning victim breaking the surface.
He looked at Katharina, his eyes wide with terror and gratitude. "Oh god. You saved me. You're an angel."
Katharina packed the syringe back into her kit. She stood up, pulling her hood over her head.
"I'm not an angel," she said flatly. "I'm the Broker. And angels don't charge consulting fees."
Her burner phone buzzed.
Payment Received: $50,000.
She walked out of the loft, leaving the man alive, anonymous, and in debt.
