The Lincoln navigated the exit ramp, the tires hissing against the wet pavement. The rain had started in earnest now, drumming a frantic rhythm on the roof.

Dawn kept up the act, taking shallow, ragged breaths. Every time Catrina looked like she was about to protest the detour, Dawn would let out a dry heave, and Catrina would recoil, pressing a scented handkerchief to her nose.

"You are ruining everything," Catrina muttered. "Dozier is going to be furious. He hates flakes."

"Better a flake than a spectacle," Dawn wheezed.

O'Malley turned the car onto the secondary road that led back toward the East End. It was a darker route, lined with dense woods that swallowed the headlights. This was the road less traveled, the one the locals used to avoid the summer tourists.

"Why is it so dark?" Catrina complained. "This is creepy."

"It's the shortcut," O'Malley said. "Fastest way to the estate."

Dawn closed her eyes, counting the seconds. Her intel pinpointed the time of impact at 7:42 PM. She checked the dashboard clock. 7:38 PM.

They were close.

"Can't you drive faster?" Catrina snapped. "I'm missing the red carpet photos."

"The road is slick, Miss Catrina," O'Malley said, his voice tight.

Dawn felt the car sway as a gust of wind hit them. The storm was intensifying. A gray rhino. That's what they called a highly probable, high-impact threat that everyone ignored until it was too late. The storm was a gray rhino. The financial collapse of her father's company was a gray rhino.

And somewhere on this road, Jennings Stafford was about to meet his own gray rhino.

"Slow down," Dawn said suddenly.

"What?" Catrina looked at her. "You just want to make me later?"

"I said slow down!" Dawn shouted.

O'Malley, startled by the authority in her tone, tapped the brakes.

Just in time.

Ahead of them, the darkness was broken by a flash of sparks. A massive shape had sheared through the guardrail on the curve. It wasn't a normal car. It was a black SUV, tumbling down the embankment into the ravine.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" O'Malley slammed on the brakes fully. The Lincoln skidded, the anti-lock brakes pulsing against the sole of his foot.

The car came to a halt twenty yards from the broken rail.

Silence filled the cabin for a heartbeat, broken only by the slap of windshield wipers.

"Did you see that?" O'Malley's voice shook.

"Drive," Catrina whispered. "O'Malley, just drive. That's none of our business. We don't want to get involved."

Dawn was already unbuckling her seatbelt.

"Are you insane?" Catrina grabbed her arm. "It's pouring rain! You're sick!"

Dawn looked at Catrina's hand on her arm, then up at her face. "I'm feeling better."

She shoved the door open. The wind ripped it from her grasp. Rain lashed at her face instantly, soaking the silk dress within seconds. It was freezing, but the cold made her feel alive. It sharpened her senses.

"Miss Dawn!" O'Malley yelled, scrambling for his umbrella.

Dawn didn't wait. She hiked up her silver skirt and climbed over the guardrail. The mud was slippery, sucking at her heels. She kicked them off. Barefoot, she slid down the embankment toward the wreckage.

The SUV was on its side. Smoke was already curling from the engine block. The smell of gasoline was thick and pungent, masking the scent of the pine trees.

Dawn reached the vehicle. The windows were shattered but held together by the lamination-bulletproof glass. This wasn't a civilian crash.

She wiped the mud from the rear window and peered inside.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the interior in a stark, strobe-light effect.

The driver was slumped over the wheel, his neck at an impossible angle. Gone.

But in the back, a man was pinned. He was conscious. His face was a mask of blood, but those eyes... she would know those eyes anywhere. They were the color of steel and just as cold.

Jennings Stafford.

The man who, unbeknownst to him, had anonymously funded the appeal that shaved five years off her prison sentence. The man whose calculated disappearance for three months would cause his company's stock to plummet, creating the vacuum that Dozier Buckley would fill.

He hadn't disappeared. He had been here. Dying in the mud while she was meant to be sipping champagne at a gala.

Not this time.

The heat radiating from the undercarriage was intense, fighting against the cold rain. Dawn could hear the hiss of water hitting hot metal.

"Miss Dawn! It's going to blow!" O'Malley was at the top of the ridge, shining a flashlight down.

"Throw me the jack handle!" Dawn screamed back.

O'Malley didn't argue. He slid down the mud, the tire iron in his hand. He handed it to her, his face pale.

Dawn took the heavy iron bar. She didn't strike the glass blindly. She aimed for the corner, where the stress points were highest. She swung with her entire body weight.

Crack.

The safety glass spiderwebbed. She swung again. And again. On the fourth blow, the laminate gave way. She used the hook of the iron to peel the sheet of glass back like a sardine can lid.

She crawled inside.

The world tilted. The interior was a mess of deployed airbags and loose luggage. Jennings Stafford was suspended by his seatbelt, his body hanging at an awkward angle.

As soon as she got close, a hand shot out.

It clamped around her throat.

Dawn froze. The grip was weak, trembling, but the intent was lethal.

"Get... away," Jennings rasped. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.

He thought she was the assassin coming to finish the job.

Dawn didn't pull away. She didn't panic. She looked straight into his dilated pupils. She placed two fingers on his wrist, right over the radial artery.

"Thready pulse. Tachycardic," she said, her voice calm and professional, cutting through the chaos. "Multiple rib fractures are compromising your breathing, and you have a compound fracture of the left tibia. I can feel a hematoma forming on your chest. If you don't let go, you'll pass out in thirty seconds and burn to death in two minutes."

Jennings blinked. The medical jargon seemed to short-circuit his fight-or-flight response. His hand dropped from her throat.

"Who..."

"Dawn Hoffman," she said. "I'm getting you out."

She reached for the seatbelt release. It was jammed. Of course it was.

"O'Malley! Knife!"

O'Malley passed her a pocket knife. She sawed through the thick webbing. As the belt gave way, Jennings's weight shifted. She braced herself, catching him before he could crash into the door panel.

He was heavy. Solid muscle and dead weight. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of agony that vibrated against her chest.

"I've got you," she whispered near his ear. "I need you to push with your good leg. On three."

"I can't..."

"You can, or you die," she said. "One. Two. Three!"

He pushed. She pulled. They tumbled out of the broken window together, landing in the mud.

The pain must have been blinding, but Jennings didn't scream. He just clenched his jaw so hard she thought his teeth would shatter.

"Move! Move!" O'Malley grabbed Jennings's other arm.

They dragged him ten feet, twenty feet. The mud made it impossible to get traction. Dawn's bare feet were cut and bleeding, but she didn't feel it.

Whoosh.

The gas tank ignited. A wave of heat slammed into their backs, throwing them forward.

Dawn landed on top of Jennings, shielding his head with her arms. The explosion roared, shaking the ground. Debris rained down around them-bits of metal, plastic, and burning rubber.

For a moment, they just lay there. Dawn could feel his heart hammering against her own. She could smell the copper scent of his blood mixing with the expensive musk of his cologne and the acrid smoke.

He was looking up at her. His face was streaked with mud and blood, but his gaze was clear. He was assessing her. Even now, on the brink of death, he was calculating.

"You're... Montgomery's daughter," he whispered.

"Yes," she said, pushing herself up. She wiped the rain from her eyes. "And you're heavy."

"We need to get him up the hill," Dawn said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

O'Malley nodded, though he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. "Yes, Miss."

They hoisted Jennings up. He hissed in pain as his broken leg dragged over a root. Dawn winced in sympathy but didn't stop.

"Keep the leg straight," she ordered. "Don't let it twist."

It took them five minutes to scramble up the embankment. By the time they reached the road, Dawn's lungs were burning, and her silver dress was ruined, stained black with oil and red with blood.

Catrina was standing by the open door of the Lincoln, holding an umbrella over herself. She took one look at the bloody mess they were dragging toward her and shrieked.

"Oh my god! Don't bring him here! Look at him!"

Jennings, despite his condition, turned his head. His eyes narrowed at the woman screaming.

"Open the door, Catrina," Dawn said.

"No!" Catrina blocked the entrance. "He's bleeding everywhere! He'll ruin the upholstery! And think of the liability, Dawn! If he dies in our car, we'll be sued! We should just call 911 and leave."

Jennings let out a dry, dark chuckle that turned into a cough. "Liability," he muttered.

Dawn stopped. She let O'Malley take Jennings's weight for a second. She walked up to Catrina. She was shorter than her cousin, and barefoot, but in that moment, she loomed.

"Catrina," Dawn said, her voice low and dangerous. "If you don't move, I will send Aunt Eleanor the video of you and the senator's aide from last summer's polo match. The one you paid the stable boy to delete."

Catrina froze. Her hand went to her throat. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then let's test that theory. Get in the front seat. Now," Dawn said. "And I'll also tell her about the money you skimmed from the charity fund last month."

Catrina's face went white. "You know about that?"

"I know everything," Dawn lied. She didn't know about the fund specifically, but people like Catrina always skimmed. It was a safe bet.

Catrina scrambled into the front passenger seat without another word.

"Back seat," Dawn told O'Malley.

They maneuvered Jennings into the spacious rear cabin. Dawn climbed in after him. There was barely enough room for his legs. She had to sit on the floor, kneeling beside him.

"O'Malley, go," she said. "West Wing entrance. The service road. No lights."

"Understood."

The car pulled away. Dawn immediately went to work. She ripped the hem of her dress-silk was strong, good for binding. She tied a tourniquet above the gash on his thigh.

"This is going to hurt," she warned.

"Do it," Jennings gritted out.

She tightened the knot. His body seized, every muscle locking up. He grabbed her hand, squeezing it hard enough to bruise bone.

Dawn didn't pull away. She let him anchor himself to her. She watched his face, monitoring his pain levels.

"You're a doctor," he said, his voice tight. It wasn't a question.

"I was," she corrected. "Now I'm just a liability."

He looked at her, really looked at her, through the haze of pain. "You're not a liability," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the shock began to set in. "You're an asset."