The Maybach's anti-lock braking system screamed like a dying animal as the computer seized control.
Keira slammed her foot back down on the accelerator, stomping on it with all her body weight, but the electronic pedal was dead. The system had entirely locked her out.
The sudden, violent deceleration on the flooded asphalt caused the massive vehicle to lose all traction. The rear end whipped out, sending the car sliding sideways toward the heavy cast-iron fire hydrant on the corner of 5th Avenue.
In the back seat, Hillard crossed his forearms over his face and locked his core, his muscles instantly hardening into a state of rigid impact preparation.
The deafening crunch of metal tearing against iron shattered the night. The right side of the Maybach's hood caved in around the hydrant. A geyser of high-pressure water erupted into the sky, slamming down onto the roof like a waterfall.
The driver's side airbag exploded from the steering wheel with the force of a heavyweight punch. It slammed directly into Keira's fragile chest and face.
Her head snapped sideways, her temple cracking hard against the reinforced side window. The world fractured into a dizzying kaleidoscope of double vision and blinding white light.
The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder and the dry, choking scent of talcum powder filled the cabin. Keira's lungs seized. She couldn't pull in a breath. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead, before the darkness swallowed her completely.
In the rear, Hillard shoved the warped privacy partition out of his way. His dark, calculating eyes swept over the unconscious, frail girl slumped over the steering wheel.
He kicked the jammed rear door with the flat of his custom leather shoe. The heavy door groaned and popped open. He stepped out into the freezing downpour, his shoes sinking into the mud and the flooding water from the broken hydrant.
Three black SUVs tore through the rain, their tires screeching as they formed a tight barricade around the wrecked Maybach. Alex Thorne, Hillard's executive assistant, sprinted out of the lead vehicle, holding a massive black umbrella.
Alex took one look at the crushed million-dollar car and his face drained of color. He reached out to grab Hillard's arm, but Hillard raised a hand, stopping him dead in his tracks.
Hillard strode to the driver's side. He grabbed the warped door handle and ripped the door open with brute force. He reached across Keira's limp body and unbuckled the seatbelt.
He bent down and scooped her out of the ruined seat. His movements were rigid and cold, but his hands carefully avoided the bleeding gash near her temple.
Keira's head fell back, resting against the solid wall of Hillard's chest. The oversized black hood slipped off her head, exposing her face to the harsh glare of the streetlights.
Hillard looked down.
His pupils contracted to pinpricks. The air vanished from his lungs. His breathing stopped for half a second.
A violent surge of electricity shot through his nervous system. The memory of a blood-soaked floor and a lifeless girl crashed into his skull, bringing a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes. His arms involuntarily tightened around Keira, pulling her flush against his chest as if trying to embed her into his own body. His knuckles turned stark white from the strain. It wasn't an act of anger or control, but a desperate, visceral need for confirmation-a frantic physical verification that the fragile, cold girl in his arms was actually breathing, that she was real and not another blood-soaked phantom.
"Boss?" Alex asked, his voice tight with panic. "Do we call the NYPD to process the hijacker?"
Hillard's jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked visibly. He forced the air back into his lungs and spat out two words.
"The estate."
He turned and carried Keira toward the backup SUV, his strides long and urgent. He laid her down on the expansive leather bench seat in the back, his hands lingering for a fraction of a second before he pulled away.
The convoy sped away from the scene, leaving a team of security contractors in the rain to scrub the Maybach's data drives and erase every street camera feed in a five-block radius.
An hour later, the SUV passed through the heavily fortified gates of the Conway estate on Long Island. Hillard carried Keira's soaked body through the grand foyer, ignoring the water dripping onto the imported marble, and headed straight for the second-floor guest suite.
He tossed her onto the massive European-style bed. The filthy rainwater and street grime instantly soaked into the pristine, thousand-dollar silk sheets.
Dr. Julian, the estate's concierge physician, rushed into the room carrying a stainless-steel trauma kit. He immediately began running a biometric scanner over Keira's chest.
Using medical shears, Julian cut away the ruined, soaked jacket. He frowned deeply. "Severe malnutrition, sir. And multiple older contusions on her ribs."
Hillard stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. He clipped the end of a cigar and lit it, the heavy smoke swirling around his face. His eyes were narrowed, fixed on the girl on the bed with a dangerous, predatory scrutiny.
Julian pulled a syringe of clear liquid from his kit. "I'll administer a heavy sedative to prevent her from thrashing when she wakes."
"No." Hillard's voice cracked like a whip.
Julian froze, the needle hovering in the air.
"Treat the lacerations," Hillard commanded, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. "I want her fully conscious for the interrogation. No painkillers."
A female nurse stepped in to help strip Keira of her wet clothes and dress her in an oversized, dry silk robe. As the nurse rolled up Keira's left sleeve, the bright overhead chandelier illuminated the inside of her forearm.
It was covered in dozens of tiny, dark needle puncture marks.
Hillard stared at the track marks. The muscle in his jaw tightened again. The rumors in the social circles were that Elias Barnett's granddaughter was a hopeless, degenerate junkie. The physical evidence was right there, painted on her skin. Disgust warred with the lingering phantom pain in his chest.
Julian finished bandaging her head, left a printed medical report on the nightstand, and bowed his head. He and the nurse quickly exited, pulling the heavy oak doors shut behind them.
The heavy click of the lock echoed in the massive room. Hillard remained standing by the window, the cherry-red tip of his cigar glowing in the dim light, waiting for the girl to open her eyes.
