A gorgeous woman in a soaking wet bikini walked to the center of the road, standing between the two idling supercars.

She raised a black-and-white checkered flag high above her head.

Duval sat in the driver's seat. He held the steering wheel with one hand, his posture relaxed and utterly indifferent.

In the next lane, the tattooed racer slammed his foot on the gas. The Ferrari's engine screamed, trying to dominate Duval with pure noise.

The woman slashed the flag downward. Both cars launched forward like bullets fired from a gun.

The tires spun wildly on the wet asphalt, burning rubber and sending up thick clouds of white smoke.

Duval's Aston Martin utilized its superior torque. He pulled ahead by half a car length in the first three seconds.

The tattooed man cursed. He stayed right on Duval's bumper, trying to use the slipstream to gain speed for a pass.

The rain poured harder. The windshield wipers thrashed violently, but visibility dropped to near zero.

In the bushes just before the hairpin turn, Eliza stood as still as a stone statue. She didn't even breathe.

The vibration in the ground grew stronger. Blinding headlights swept across the tree trunks.

Eliza counted down in her head. Three. Two. One.

The Aston Martin approached the braking zone at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. Eliza moved.

She leaped out of the bushes like a ghost. She planted her feet directly in the center of the lane, facing the speeding machine.

Duval's pupils contracted into tiny dots.

A normal driver would have jerked the steering wheel to avoid her, sending the car rolling off the cliff. Duval's reaction was pure, selfish calculation.

He slammed the brake pedal to the floor and aggressively downshifted the transmission.

The carbon-ceramic brake rotors exploded with bright orange sparks. The entire chassis shuddered violently.

The supercar lost traction on the wet road. It began to slide sideways, hydroplaning directly toward Eliza.

Eliza stood perfectly still. She didn't blink. She stared coldly through the windshield at the man behind the wheel.

The tires shrieked. The front bumper stopped exactly one inch from Eliza's raw, blood-slicked knees.

The massive G-force threw Duval forward. The seatbelt locked, bruising his collarbone.

The tattooed man saw the obstacle. He laughed like a maniac, swerved into the oncoming lane, and blew past them, taking the lead.

Duval slowly lifted his head. Pure, murderous rage boiled in his eyes. He glared through the glass at the woman who had just cost him the race.

Eliza dragged her bleeding right leg. She limped to the driver's side window.

She raised her blood-soaked left hand and knocked hard on the bullet-resistant glass.

Duval rolled the window down. The air around him felt heavy enough to crush her lungs.

Eliza ignored his killing intent. Her voice was hoarse, but steady as steel. "Do you want to win this two-million-dollar bet?"

Duval sneered. He opened his mouth to order his security to throw her off the mountain.

Eliza looked straight into his eyes. She laid out her terms. "Let me drive. I will win it for you. The price is, you take me out of here and provide the highest level of medical care."

Duval narrowed his eyes. He scrutinized the girl standing in the storm. She was covered in mud and blood, looking like a corpse that had crawled out of a grave.

He searched her eyes for fear. He found nothing but absolute, chilling confidence.

That look struck a chord deep within Duval's twisted psychology. It fed his craving for madness.

He let out a short, dark laugh. He pushed open the passenger door and climbed over the center console. "You have exactly five minutes to impress me."

Eliza didn't waste a single breath. She forced her broken body into the driver's seat.

Her blood immediately soaked into the expensive hand-stitched leather. She didn't care.

She gripped the steering wheel with her left hand. Her right hand, though broken at the shoulder, moved with terrifying precision to flick the paddle shifters.

She stomped the gas pedal. The Aston Martin roared in fury and launched forward.

The brutal acceleration pushed Eliza back into the seat. Blinding pain exploded in her fractured ribs and shattered shoulder. Her vision swam with dark spots, but she refused to pass out. She bit her lip until it bled, using the sharp spike of agony to keep her mind anchored. Her body was failing, but her combat-honed muscle memory completely took over. Every shift, every flick of the wheel was driven by sheer, terrifying willpower rather than the failed Chimera enhancement.

Duval sat in the passenger seat. He watched her hands. Her movements were flawless, mechanical, and terrifyingly professional.

A series of S-curves approached. The taillights of the Ferrari glowed faintly in the rain ahead.

Eliza didn't touch the brakes. As she entered the corner, she yanked the emergency brake lever.

The car snapped sideways. It drifted across the slick asphalt, the front tires kissing the exact apex of the curve.

The rear tires spun off the edge of the road, kicking gravel down into the black abyss below.

Duval raised an eyebrow. This was a suicidal driving technique. Not even professional rally drivers would attempt a Scandinavian flick on a wet mountain edge.

In just three corners, the Aston Martin was riding the Ferrari's bumper.

The tattooed man checked his rearview mirror. Panic set in. He began to swerve wildly, blocking the narrow lane to prevent Eliza from passing.

Eliza stared at the Ferrari. Her eyes were locked on her prey.

Ahead was the most notorious section of the track: the "Kiss of Death." It was a U-shaped turn with no guardrail on the outside edge.

The tattooed man hugged the inside line, forcing Eliza to take the outside path near the cliff.

Eliza didn't lift her foot off the gas. She downshifted, rev-matching perfectly.

The Aston Martin surged forward on the outside line. The two left wheels completely left the asphalt, hanging over the deadly drop.

Duval's pupils dilated. He felt the sickening sensation of weightlessness as the car tilted toward the canyon.

Eliza used the heavy weight of the engine block on the right side to keep the car pinned to the road. She executed an impossible pendulum drift.

The Aston Martin scraped against the Ferrari's front bumper and squeezed past on the very edge of the cliff.

The tattooed man lost his nerve. He slammed on his brakes in sheer terror. His car spun out and crashed hard into the rock wall.

Eliza completed the pass. The left wheels slammed back onto the pavement. The suspension groaned in protest.

The floodlights of the finish line pierced through the rain.

Eliza kept the throttle pinned to the floor. The black car tore across the finish line like a shadow.

The black Aston Martin crossed the infrared timing sensors with a deafening screech of brakes.

The crowd erupted. The grid girls screamed, waving their umbrellas in a frenzy of excitement.

The supercar came to a complete stop ten meters past the crowd.

Inside the cabin, the moment the car stopped moving, the adrenaline keeping Eliza alive vanished. Her tightly wound nerves snapped.

She let go of the steering wheel. She violently vomited a mouthful of dark blood onto the dashboard.

Her head slumped forward, resting heavily against the horn. She lost consciousness entirely.

The amused smirk vanished from Duval's face. He quickly unbuckled his seatbelt.

He reached over and pressed two fingers against Eliza's carotid artery. Her pulse was so weak it was barely there.

Griffin and Jules ran up to the car, holding umbrellas and laughing, ready to celebrate Duval's insane victory.

Griffin yanked open the driver's side door. The smile froze on his face.

He stared in horror at the blood-drenched girl slumped over the wheel. He stammered, "What the hell, Duval? Who is she?"

Duval ignored his friend's panic. He leaned over, carefully avoiding her twisted right arm, and scooped her up into his arms.

She weighed almost nothing, like a broken bird. But the metallic stench of her blood was overpowering.

Jules pushed his glasses up, looking at the ruined leather seat. His voice was grave. "She's dying. You've brought trouble, Duval."

Duval carried Eliza toward the black armored SUV that Rook had just pulled up.

He issued a cold command to Rook. "Contact Dr. Elara Vance. Clear the underground medical bay at the estate. Prepare for a Level One trauma resuscitation."

Rook nodded sharply. He pulled open the heavy armored door.

Duval climbed into the back seat, laying Eliza flat on the wide leather bench.

The SUV activated its hidden police sirens. It tore away from the crowd, speeding into the night.

The interior of the SUV was dim. Duval looked down at the girl lying on his seat.

He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket. He gently wiped the thick mud and blood from her face.

The dirt cleared, revealing delicate, striking features.

Duval's eyes widened slightly in surprise. She looked incredibly young. She couldn't be older than eighteen.

How could a teenage girl possess the eyes of a seasoned killer and the driving skills of a combat operative?

Eliza frowned in her deep coma. A soft moan of pain escaped her pale lips.

Duval reached out, almost involuntarily, and smoothed the crease between her eyebrows with his thumb.

He looked at his blood-stained fingertips. A dangerous, predatory smile curved his lips.

He spoke to Rook in the front seat. "Investigate every violent incident that occurred in the D. C. area tonight."

"I want to know exactly who did this to my trophy."

The SUV vanished into the storm, heading straight for the impenetrable Estrada family estate.