Aubree pushed her weight against the heavy glass doors of Terminal 4.
The November wind hit her instantly. It was a brutal, physical strike that sliced through her thin, faded olive jacket. She narrowed her slate-blue eyes against the harsh afternoon sun. The air, thick with the screech of tires and blaring horns, tasted like exhaust fumes and stale asphalt.
She walked toward the pickup curb.
A worn-out black Chevrolet Suburban idled by the concrete barrier. A man in a cheap suit leaned against the passenger door. Carl. The Hopkins family driver. Carl was Gaye's man, hired long after Eleanor's death, and his loyalty was entirely bought by the stepmother's money. He held a piece of torn cardboard. The name Aubree was scribbled on it in thick, sloppy black marker.
Three women walked past Aubree. They dragged Louis Vuitton suitcases over the pavement. The wheels clicked loudly.
One of the women, a blonde in a cashmere coat, looked at Aubree's washed-out jeans. The blonde covered her nose.
"Smells like a homeless shelter," the blonde whispered to her friend. A sharp, mocking laugh followed.
Aubree did not blink. Her heart rate remained at a steady, resting sixty beats per minute. She kept walking straight toward Carl.
Carl saw her. He took a long drag from his cigarette. As Aubree stopped in front of him, he leaned forward and blew a thick cloud of gray smoke directly into her face.
The acrid smoke hit her eyes. He wanted her to cough. He wanted her to step back.
Aubree's breathing did not change. She stood perfectly still.
Carl smirked. He crumpled the cardboard sign in his fist and tossed it into a nearby trash can.
"Throw that garbage bag in the trunk yourself," Carl ordered. His voice was thick with boredom and disgust.
Aubree stopped walking. She slowly tilted her head a fraction of an inch. She raised her eyes and locked her gaze onto Carl's face.
It was the death stare of a Scythe top asset, a look that stripped away all pretense and saw only the target. There was no anger in her slate-blue eyes. There was no humanity. It was the calculated, empty look of a predator assessing the exact amount of force required to snap a prey's neck.
Carl's smirk froze.
A violent shiver ripped down his spine. The air in his lungs suddenly felt too thick to breathe. His stomach dropped, twisting into a cold, hard knot. He felt like a red sniper dot was resting right between his eyes.
The cigarette in his hand began to tremble.
Hot ash snapped off the end. It landed directly on his polished leather shoe. He didn't even notice the burn. Carl instinctively took a half-step backward. His shoulder blades slammed hard against the metal door of the SUV.
"Open it," Aubree said.
Her voice was flat. It held no volume, but it cut through the airport noise like a surgical blade.
Carl's brain short-circuited. His body moved before he could process the humiliation. His trembling hand reached out and yanked the rear door open.
Aubree tossed her canvas bag onto the floorboard. It landed with a solid, unexpectedly heavy thud that made the chassis vibrate slightly. She slid into the backseat. The car smelled like cheap pine air freshener and old leather.
Carl wiped a layer of cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He practically dove into the driver's seat.
He slammed his door shut. The engine roared to life. The Chevrolet pulled away from the curb in suffocating silence, heading toward the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
The Chevrolet sped down the highway. Carl kept his eyes glued to the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Suddenly, three black Cadillac Escalades swerved across the lanes. They moved in a tight, military-style Pincer formation, boxing the Chevrolet in and forcing it toward the shoulder.
Carl panicked. He slammed his foot on the brake pedal.
The tires screamed against the asphalt. The smell of burning rubber filled the cabin. Aubree's body jerked forward from the massive momentum, but her core muscles locked instantly. She stabilized herself in the seat before her hands even touched the leather.
The middle Escalade parked diagonally, completely blocking their path.
The heavy door was kicked open. Kareem Hopkins stepped out. He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles ticked beneath his skin.
Six massive bodyguards poured out of the other vehicles. They wore tactical earpieces. They surrounded the Chevrolet in seconds.
Kareem marched to the rear window. He slammed his open palm against the glass.
Aubree pressed the button. The window rolled down smoothly. She stared at the face that mirrored her own, feeling absolutely nothing.
Kareem reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out a thick white envelope and threw it violently through the window. It hit Aubree's thigh and spilled open.
A one-way first-class ticket to South America slid out. Beneath it lay a trust fund check. One million dollars.
"Take the money and get the hell out of New York," Kareem spat. His voice shook with raw hatred. "Don't you ever pollute my family's air again."
Aubree didn't look at the check. She reached for the door handle and shoved the door open with brutal force.
The heavy metal edge slammed into Kareem's hip. He stumbled backward, his expensive shoes scraping awkwardly against the pavement.
Aubree stepped out of the car. Her worn combat boot planted firmly onto the million-dollar check, grinding the signature into the dirt.
Kareem's face flushed dark red. He tugged violently at his silk tie.
"Throw her in the trunk and dump her at the airport," Kareem barked at the guards.
The closest bodyguard, a man with a jagged scar across his cheek, lunged forward. His massive hand reached for Aubree's shoulder.
Aubree dropped her shoulder half an inch. The man's hand grasped empty air.
In the same fluid motion, her hand shot up. She clamped her fingers around the bodyguard's wrist joint. She pivoted her hips, engaging her entire core in a flawless CQC maneuver, and twisted sharply.
A loud, wet crack echoed over the highway noise.
The scarred man dropped to his knees, screaming. His wrist bent at a grotesque, unnatural angle.
The second guard pulled a steel tactical baton from his belt. He swung it in a vicious arc aimed straight at her skull.
Aubree ducked. The steel baton smashed into the Chevrolet's side mirror, shattering the glass into a hundred pieces.
Before the guard could recover his balance, Aubree launched a devastating side kick. The heel of her boot connected perfectly with the side of his knee.
The joint inverted with a sickening pop. The man collapsed, clutching his ruined leg, his face pale with shock.
The remaining four guards froze for a fraction of a second, then rushed her all at once.
Aubree moved like a ghost. She slipped inside their guard. Her strikes were surgical. A rigid palm strike to a throat. A sharp elbow to a solar plexus. A precise heel stomp to an instep.
It took exactly nine seconds.
Six highly trained men lay groaning and bleeding on the asphalt.
Kareem stood frozen. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated in absolute terror. His chest heaved. He couldn't process the violence he had just witnessed. This was supposed to be his weak, pathetic sister. The girl they had thrown away like garbage seven years ago. But the woman standing before him moved like a military-grade weapon. He stared at her as if she were a complete stranger, a monster wearing Aubree's face. What the hell happened to her out there? The thought screamed in his mind, mingling with his rising panic.
Aubree stepped over a groaning guard. She walked slowly toward Kareem.
Kareem tried to step back, but his legs refused to work.
Aubree reached out. Her cold fingers brushed against his chest. She grabbed his crooked silk tie and yanked it straight.
"Now, it's time for you to step aside." Aubree whispered.
Aubree turned her back on Kareem and walked down the highway shoulder.
The massive pileup caused by Kareem's three Escalades had completely paralyzed the main arteries into Manhattan. Far below the overpass, a convoy of black vehicles had been forced to detour through the desolate, maze-like streets of the industrial district to avoid the gridlock. It was the perfect chokepoint.
A sharp, rhythmic popping sound echoed from the industrial district below the overpass. Automatic gunfire.
Aubree's muscles reacted before her conscious mind did. She vaulted over the concrete barrier and slid down the embankment, landing silently behind a stack of rusted shipping containers.
She peeked around the corrugated metal edge.
The intersection was a slaughterhouse. Two armored Maybachs were smashed against a concrete pillar. Thick black smoke poured from the engines. Four men in suits lay dead on the grates, their blood mixing with the dirty street water.
A man in a black tactical vest walked slowly toward the second Maybach. He held an assault rifle flush against his shoulder.
The rear door of the Maybach was kicked open from the inside. A tall man tumbled out onto the pavement. He wore a bespoke navy suit, but the fabric over his abdomen was soaked in dark, thick blood.
Hays Crane.
The assassin stopped three feet away. He aimed the barrel of the rifle directly at Hays's head.
Aubree looked down. A shard of broken windshield glass lay near her boot. Her agent instincts took over; she swiftly ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of her faded jacket and wrapped it tightly around her palm. She picked it up. The edge was razor-sharp.
She exploded from the shadows. She closed the distance in three silent, sprinting strides.
Just as the assassin's finger tightened on the trigger, Aubree leaped. Her left arm wrapped around his throat like a steel vice, jerking his head back. Her right hand drove the jagged glass deep into the side of his neck, severing the carotid artery.
Hot, high-pressure blood sprayed across her knuckles.
The assassin dropped the rifle. He collapsed to the asphalt, his body convulsing violently before going completely still.
Aubree kicked the rifle away. She dropped to one knee beside Hays.
Hays's vision was swimming. The blood loss made the world spin. He could only see the dark silhouette of a woman against the harsh sunlight.
Aubree grabbed the lapels of his ruined suit and ripped his shirt open. The bullet wound in his abdomen was pulsing blood.
She pressed both of her blood-slicked hands directly into the wound, applying massive, agonizing pressure to the ruptured artery.
Hays let out a guttural groan. His body arched off the pavement in pure agony. He tried to shove her away.
"Shut up and stay still if you want to breathe," Aubree ordered. Her voice was ice-cold, carrying absolute, unquestionable authority.
The sound of her voice hit Hays like a physical blow.
A violent electric shock ripped through his fractured memories. A flash of fire. A crumbling building. The back of a female Valkyrie pulling him from the rubble three years ago.
Aubree reached into the dead assassin's tactical vest. She pulled out a tourniquet, a packet of alcohol wipes, and a tube of military-grade clotting gel. Her fingers moved with blinding, mechanical speed. She packed the wound and sealed it in seconds. Without missing a beat, she tore open the alcohol wipes and thoroughly scrubbed her own blood-slicked fingers, erasing any trace of her biometric data from his skin and clothes.
Hays forced his eyes open. He reached up with a trembling, bloody hand. His fingers wrapped tightly around Aubree's wrist.
"Who are you?" Hays rasped. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek looked ready to snap.
The wail of NYPD sirens pierced the air. A police helicopter chopped through the sky overhead.
Aubree looked down at his hand. She grabbed his thumb and peeled his grip off her wrist with ruthless efficiency. She dropped his arm onto the pavement.
She stood up, grabbed her canvas bag, and sprinted into the maze of the Brooklyn alleys.
Hays watched her disappear. Right before the darkness took him, his eyes locked onto a specific, special wear mark on the shoulder of her olive jacket. He burned the image into his brain.
