The bodyguards immediately released Briana and stepped back.

Briana pushed herself off the floor. She dusted off her ruined sequin dress, completely ignoring the terrified stares of the maids.

She turned and walked barefoot up the grand oak staircase, her steps heavy and deliberate. She walked straight to the second floor and pushed open the heavy double doors to Clark's study.

The room smelled of rich tobacco and leather. Clark was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, an unlit cigar pinched between his fingers.

Briana walked right up to the desk, planted her hands on the polished wood, and leaned in. "I did my job. Now pay up."

Clark's eyes dragged over her smeared lipstick and the faint scratch on her neck. A rare, genuine gleam of amusement flickered in his cold eyes.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a solid black titanium credit card, and slid it across the desk. Unlimited limit.

Briana snatched the card and shoved it down her cleavage. She opened her mouth to demand a secure room.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated violently against her thigh. She had found a charger in the guest room and finally powered the cracked-screen device back on while scrubbing the grime from her skin. Now it buzzed with an incoming message.

She frowned and pulled it out. It was a picture message from Doyle.

She clicked open the image. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. All the blood drained from her face in a single second.

It was a photo of Eleonora, her mother in this life. She was tied to a rusted pipe with thick, coarse rope. Her face was a mass of purple bruises, her lip split open. Her worn sweater was soaked in fresh blood.

Below the photo was a text: Bring the money in 30 minutes, or you can come collect the bitch's corpse.

Even though this body's memories were filled with the trauma of being sold by a deadbeat father, Eleonora was different. Eleonora's eyes, always filled with sorrow but never lacking in gentle care, were the only source of warmth the original Briana had ever known in that broken home. That profound, inherited sense of familial love seared into Briana's soul like a branding iron. A wave of primal terror and blinding rage hit Briana so hard her knees buckled slightly. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. The phone rattled against her palm.

Clark's eyes sharpened instantly. He leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "What is it?"

Briana's brain scrambled. Clark was a ruthless businessman. He wouldn't risk his men for a slum dispute. If she asked for help, he would see her as a liability.

She hit the power button, turning the screen black. She forced her facial muscles into a stiff, unnatural smile. "Nothing. Just an old debt collector trying to scare me."

Clark's eyes narrowed. He stared at her white knuckles gripping the phone. He didn't believe a word of it.

"I need to go clean up," Briana blurted out, spinning around.

She didn't look back. She forced her weight onto her good leg, dragging her throbbing ankle as she limped frantically down the hall, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

Clark stared at the empty doorway, his jaw clenched tight. He hit the intercom button on his desk. "Jairo. Track her phone. Now."

Briana burst into her guest room. She tore off the sequin dress, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She pulled on a pair of black sweatpants, a hoodie, and sneakers.

She ran into the bathroom, ripped open the first aid kit, and grabbed a pair of heavy medical scissors and a roll of bandages. She shoved them into her pocket.

She didn't go to the front door. She opened the window, grabbed the thick metal drainage pipe, and slid down into the dark bushes below, landing heavily. A sickening jolt of pain shot up her injured ankle, forcing a choked gasp from her throat, but she swallowed the agony.

She dodged the security patrols, scaled the low stone wall at the back of the estate, and dropped into the shadows of Beverly Hills.

Ten minutes later, Jairo walked into the study. "She jumped the wall, sir. GPS shows her heading straight for Skid Row."

Clark's eyes flashed with dark fury. She had just secured his protection, and now she was running off to get herself killed.

He snapped the unlit cigar in half and threw it in the trash. He grabbed his trench coat from the chair and strode toward the door.

He was going to find out exactly what made this calculating woman lose her mind.

The taxi slammed on its brakes at the corner of a pitch-black street in East LA. The driver snatched the cash from Briana's hand and sped off like he was fleeing a war zone.

Briana ignored the freezing drizzle. She ran through an alley choked with garbage and stagnant water, bursting through the doors of a rotting apartment building that reeked of urine and decay.

She took the concrete stairs two at a time, her lungs burning, until she reached the third floor. She stopped in front of a peeling wooden door.

Inside, she could hear Doyle's obnoxious laughter and the high-pitched giggling of his mistress, Gretchen. There was no panic. No hostage situation.

The last thread of Briana's sanity snapped.

She took two steps back, braced her good leg against the floorboards, and threw her entire body weight forward, ramming her shoulder into the lock with every ounce of strength she possessed.

The rotting wood splintered with a loud crack. The door flew open, slamming violently against the interior wall.

Doyle, sitting on a stained sofa with Gretchen on his lap, jumped out of his skin. He dropped the stack of dirty bills he was counting.

When he saw Briana, his shock morphed into ugly rage. He grabbed an empty beer bottle from the table and pointed it at her. "You ungrateful bitch! You put Preston in the hospital! The gang is after me because of you!"

Briana's eyes swept the tiny, filthy room. Eleonora wasn't there.

Murderous intent flooded her veins. She reached behind her and pushed the broken door shut. Click.

Doyle sneered, emboldened by the alcohol in his system. He lunged at her, raising the bottle to smash it over her head.

Briana didn't flinch. She ducked under his clumsy swing. She pivoted, driving her elbow brutally into his soft, bloated stomach.

Doyle gasped, all the air leaving his lungs. The bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

Before he could recover, Briana grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair. She yanked his head down and slammed his face directly into the glass-covered coffee table.

The glass shattered completely. Doyle screamed-a wet, gurgling sound-and collapsed to the floor, his face a bloody mess.

Gretchen shrieked in terror. She scrambled off the sofa and crawled toward the door.

Briana lunged like a predator. She grabbed Gretchen by her blonde extensions and dragged her backward across the floor.

Gretchen thrashed wildly, her long acrylic nails scratching deep, bloody lines down Briana's forearm.

Briana didn't feel it. She slammed her knee into Gretchen's back, pinning her flat against the floorboards. She reached out and grabbed the largest, sharpest shard of the broken beer bottle.

She pressed the jagged edge hard against Gretchen's carotid artery.

Gretchen froze instantly.

"I'm only going to ask this once," Briana whispered, her voice a dead, hollow sound that belonged in a graveyard. "Where is my mother?"

She pressed the glass a millimeter deeper. A thin line of blood welled up and trickled down Gretchen's neck. A warm, pungent smell filled the air as Gretchen lost control of her bladder.

"The South Side!" Gretchen sobbed hysterically. "The abandoned auto shop! They locked her in the basement!"

Briana's eyes went cold. She flipped the medical scissors in her hand and brought the heavy metal handle down hard against the back of Gretchen's skull. The woman went limp.

Briana stood up. She walked over to Doyle, who was moaning on the floor. She dug into his pockets and pulled out a set of keys with a Ford logo.

She looked down at his right hand. Without a change in expression, she raised her boot and stomped down hard on his fingers.

Three bones snapped like dry twigs. Doyle passed out from the pain.

Briana stepped over the bodies, walked out the door, and ran down to the alley. She found the rusted pickup truck, jammed the key in the ignition, and tore out onto the street, heading south.

The rusted pickup truck sputtered and died a block away from the industrial zone.

Briana grabbed a heavy iron crowbar from the passenger seat and slipped out into the darkness, ignoring the fiery protests of her swollen ankle.

The abandoned auto shop loomed ahead, a massive skeleton of rusted corrugated metal surrounded by overgrown weeds. A single, flickering streetlamp cast long, distorted shadows.

She avoided the main garage doors. She crept around to the back of the building and found a large ventilation grate. She jammed the crowbar into the rusted bolts and snapped them off with a violent twist.

She squeezed into the narrow metal shaft. The air inside was thick with the smell of old motor oil, mold, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

She dropped down from the vent into a dark corridor. Using the faint glow of her phone screen, she found the heavy iron door leading to the basement.

She slid Doyle's key into the padlock. It clicked open.

She pulled the heavy door. The stench of rot and blood hit her like a physical wall.

In the center of the basement, Eleonora was slumped against a concrete pillar, her wrists bound above her head with thick chains. She wasn't moving.

Briana's heart seized. She sprinted over and pressed two fingers against Eleonora's neck. A weak, thready pulse fluttered against her skin.

Tears burned Briana's eyes. She frantically used the keys to unlock the padlock on the chains.

The heavy metal fell away. Eleonora's broken body collapsed forward. Briana caught her, absorbing her weight.

Eleonora's swollen eyes fluttered open. She saw Briana and let out a weak, terrified gasp. "Run... it's a trap..."

Before the words fully left her mouth, the screech of tires echoed outside. Blinding headlights swept across the small basement windows.

Heavy boots slammed against the pavement. The metallic clack-clack of shotguns being pumped shattered the silence. The gang had arrived.

Briana tried to lift Eleonora onto her back, but her mother let out a horrific scream of pain. Her ribs were shattered. She couldn't be moved quickly.

Despair, cold and absolute, washed over Briana. She couldn't fight off an armed gang while carrying a dying woman. They were going to die down here.

The iron door at the top of the stairs was kicked open. Heavy footsteps began descending.

Briana bit her lip so hard it bled. She pulled out the burner phone. Her fingers shook as she dialed the only number that could save them.

It rang three times.

"Where are you?" Clark's voice came through the speaker, low, icy, and vibrating with suppressed fury.

"South Side auto shop," Briana choked out, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please. Save my mother."

"Hide," Clark ordered. The line went dead.

Briana dragged Eleonora behind a massive pile of rotting tires. She pulled a heavy, grease-stained tarp over them, plunging them into total darkness.

The basement door swung open. Two massive men covered in gang tattoos walked in, holding shotguns. The beams of their flashlights sliced through the dark, sweeping across the room.

Briana clamped her hand over Eleonora's mouth. She held her own breath.

The heavy boots splashed in the puddles on the floor. Step. Step. Step. They were getting closer.

The flashlight beam hit the tarp. A tattooed hand reached out to rip it away.

Suddenly, the night exploded.

A deafening barrage of automatic gunfire erupted outside.

The two gang members spun around in shock. Before they could raise their weapons, the basement windows shattered inward.

Two cylindrical canisters rolled across the floor.

BANG!

Blinding white light and a concussive shockwave ripped through the room. The gang members screamed, dropping their guns and clutching their eyes.

Within three seconds, a team of men in full black tactical gear repelled through the windows. They moved with lethal precision, tackling the blinded gang members and zip-tying their wrists before they could even breathe.

The tarp was suddenly yanked back.

Briana flinched, raising her hands.

Jairo stood over her, wearing a Kevlar vest, an assault rifle slung across his chest. He looked down at her shivering form.

He tapped his earpiece. "Target secured."

He waved his hand, and two combat medics rushed forward with a stretcher.