The midnight rain slicked the Manhattan asphalt, turning the streets into a dark, reflective mirror.

Ahead of them, three massive, all-black Cadillac Escalades drove in a tight, synchronized V-formation.

Devonte drove the Aston Martin with the headlights completely off. The sports car glided through the shadows, a silent predator stalking its prey.

Eleanora watched the digital distance tracker on the dashboard count down.

"Cut into the blind spot," Eleanora ordered, her voice devoid of any panic. "Hit the lead car on the rear left quarter panel. Hard."

Devonte didn't flinch. He gripped the leather steering wheel, slammed his foot on the gas, and jerked the wheel to the right.

The Aston Martin's V12 engine roared to life.

The sports car shot the gap between two taxis and slammed violently into the side of the lead Escalade.

The sound of crunching metal and shattering fiberglass ripped through the quiet street.

The impact sent the lead SUV skidding sideways. The driver slammed on the brakes. The tires shrieked against the wet pavement, sending up a spray of dirty water.

The entire convoy was forced into a violent, emergency stop.

Inside the middle Escalade, Fidel Vaughan was thrown forward against his seatbelt.

The sudden, violent jolt sent a shockwave of pure agony straight into his brain.

Fidel let out a low, guttural groan. He grabbed his head, his fingers digging into his scalp. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving through his left eye.

The temperature inside the SUV seemed to drop ten degrees as Fidel's murderous rage flooded the cabin.

Outside, the doors of the front and rear Escalades flew open.

Six massive bodyguards in black suits poured out into the rain. They drew suppressed Glock pistols from their shoulder holsters, aiming the black muzzles directly at the Aston Martin.

The Aston Martin's gull-wing door slowly swung upward.

Eleanora stepped out.

Her black tactical coat caught the wind. Her high heels clicked sharply against the wet pavement.

The rain hit her face, but she didn't blink. She stared down the barrels of six loaded guns with absolute, chilling indifference.

She walked straight toward the middle Escalade.

The lead bodyguard stepped into her path, raising his gun to her chest. "Stop right there."

Devonte materialized from the driver's side. He moved with terrifying speed, grabbing the bodyguard's wrist and twisting it downward with a sickening pop.

Eleanora didn't even break her stride.

She reached the rear passenger door of the middle SUV. She raised her hand, the sterile latex glove stark against the dark glass, and knocked twice on the bulletproof window.

The window hummed and rolled down exactly two inches.

Fidel's face appeared in the narrow gap. Half of his face was hidden in the shadows, but his eyes burned with a lethal, suppressed fury. He was breathing heavily, fighting the pain in his skull.

Their eyes locked.

Fidel saw a woman with a face that could stop traffic, but her eyes were as dead and cold as a glacier.

"I am Spectre," Eleanora said, her voice slicing through the sound of the rain. "I can cure your disease."

Fidel's jaw tightened. The name registered in his brain, but the searing pain in his head made him volatile. He hated being ambushed. He hated losing control.

He looked at her, his lip curling into a sneer of pure disdain.

"Throw her in the river," Fidel rasped to his men.

He didn't hesitate. He pressed the button on his armrest.

The thick glass window rolled up, sealing shut with a heavy thud, cutting Eleanora off completely.

The bodyguards immediately moved in, their hands reaching out to grab Eleanora's shoulders.

Devonte shifted his weight, dropping into a combat stance, ready to break bones.

Eleanora raised a single finger, signaling Devonte to stand down.

She didn't fight. She didn't yell.

She simply took one step back, a cold, mocking smile playing on her lips.

Inside the SUV, the driver shifted into drive. The massive engine revved, preparing to leave her standing in the rain.

The Escalade's massive tires spun on the wet asphalt, gripping the road as the engine roared.

Eleanora stood perfectly still in the rain. The water ran down her black trench coat.

Just as the rear bumper of the SUV passed her, Eleanora inhaled sharply and projected her voice, cutting through the engine noise and the storm.

"Right temporal lobe piercing pain!" Eleanora shouted. "Frequency of eighty beats per minute. Accompanied by intermittent optic nerve blackouts!"

Inside the heavily insulated cabin, the words penetrated the glass.

Fidel's entire body went rigid. His hands, which were pressed against his temples, froze.

"Severe insomnia exceeding one hundred and twenty hours," Eleanora's voice rang out again, cold and clinical. "Standard sedatives have developed full resistance. Your nerve fibers are actively snapping."

Fidel's eyes snapped open. His pupils dilated in pure shock.

Those symptoms were highly classified. His own private medical team didn't even have the exact frequency of the pain pulses.

"You have three months left," Eleanora delivered the final blow. "Then you go into brain death. Keep driving. Enjoy your funeral."

She turned her back on the convoy and started walking toward the Aston Martin.

Inside the SUV, Fidel's chest he heave. The pain in his head was screaming, but the shock of her words paralyzed him.

"Stop the car," Fidel growled.

The driver slammed on the brakes. The Escalade lurched to a halt ten yards away from Eleanora.

Julian, sitting in the passenger seat, turned around, his face pale. "Sir? It could be a trap."

Fidel ignored him. He pressed the intercom button. "Bring her to me."

Two bodyguards immediately ran forward, stepping in front of Eleanora just as she reached for the Aston Martin's door handle.

Eleanora stopped. She looked over her shoulder at the stopped Escalade. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a victorious smirk.

She let go of the door handle and walked slowly back to the SUV.

The rear window rolled all the way down.

Fidel stared at her, his eyes stripping her down, searching for a lie. "How do you know that?"

Eleanora stopped right outside the window. She looked down at him, her expression completely bored. "I'm a doctor. My eyes told me."

Fidel let out a harsh, painful breath. "If you investigated me to get close, I will peel your skin off."

Eleanora raised her left wrist, pulling back her sleeve to check her watch.

"Your heart rate is currently sitting at one hundred and thirty," she stated flatly. "Cold sweat is soaking through your custom shirt. You have exactly fifteen minutes to decide if you want my needles in your head, or your next spasm will put you into hemorrhagic shock."

Fidel's jaw clamped shut. A fresh wave of agony ripped through his skull, validating her exact timeline.

He stared at the woman. She was arrogant, cold, and entirely unafraid of him.

His survival instinct overpowered his paranoia.

"Take her to my private suite at the club," Fidel ordered Julian.

Julian's eyes widened in shock. Fidel never let anyone into his private sanctuary.

Eleanora turned to Devonte and gave him a subtle nod. "Have the Aegis legal team handle the fallout," Eleanora murmured, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the storm. "I want all public records of this collision scrubbed, the street cameras looped, and the local precinct bought off within the hour."

Devonte backed away with a curt nod, returning to the Aston Martin to wait.

A bodyguard opened the rear door of the Escalade.

Eleanora climbed in. She sat on the plush leather seat, leaving a foot of space between herself and Fidel.

The door slammed shut, sealing them in the dark, quiet cabin.

The convoy accelerated, speeding through the rain toward the VIP club.

The private elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open, revealing the penthouse suite of the exclusive Manhattan VIP club.

Fidel stumbled out of the elevator. He pressed his hand hard against his forehead, his breathing ragged. He collapsed onto the center of a massive velvet sofa, his long legs sprawling out.

Julian followed close behind, his hand resting instinctively on the grip of the pistol holstered under his jacket. His eyes never left Eleanora.

Eleanora walked into the room, her silver briefcase swinging lightly at her side.

She ignored Fidel's groans of pain. She walked straight to the large marble coffee table in front of the sofa.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a thick packet of medical-grade sanitizing wipes.

She pulled one out and began to wipe down the surface of the marble. She scrubbed with intense, methodical pressure, her eyes tracking every inch of the stone.

When she finished the first pass, she threw the wipe into a nearby trash can, pulled out a fresh one, and wiped the entire table down a second time.

Fidel opened one bloodshot eye. The sharp smell of alcohol and bleach hit his nose.

"What the hell are you doing?" he ground out through clenched teeth.

Eleanora didn't look at him. "Creating a sterile field. I despise the bacteria of strangers."

Fidel's eye twitched. The blatant insult to his environment grated on his nerves, but the pounding in his skull robbed him of the energy to argue.

Eleanora placed the silver briefcase onto the clean marble. She popped the dual metal latches.

The case opened, revealing rows of glowing glass vials and a velvet roll holding dozens of silver needles.

She unrolled the velvet.

She pulled out a long, impossibly thin silver needle. At the very base of the needle, carved into the metal, was a tiny, intricate plum-blossom.

She held the needle up to the light.

"Lie back," Eleanora commanded, turning to Fidel. "And keep your mouth shut."

Fidel's hands clenched into fists. He was the king of Wall Street. Men begged on their knees for his attention. No one gave him orders.

He glared at her, his chest heaving.

Eleanora stared right back, her face devoid of any sympathy. She tapped the needle against her gloved finger. "Or you can sit there and let your brain hemorrhage. Your choice."

Fidel swallowed hard. He let his head fall back against the velvet cushions and squeezed his eyes shut.

Eleanora stepped between his knees.

She leaned over him. A faint, clean scent, like rain on cold stone, mixed with the harsh smell of sterile latex drifted down, filling Fidel's lungs.

Her gloved fingertips pressed firmly against the skin of his temples, finding the inflamed nerve clusters.

Fidel's entire body flinched at the physical contact. His muscles locked up, rejecting the touch.

"Relax your jaw," Eleanora warned, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "If you tense up, the needle snaps off inside your skull."

Fidel forced his muscles to uncoil.

Eleanora's wrist flicked.

The plum-blossom needle pierced the skin just above his ear, sliding deep into the tissue with terrifying precision.

Julian took a half-step forward, his heart hammering in his chest, but Fidel raised a single finger, ordering him to stay back.

As the first needle settled into the nerve block, a microscopic fraction of the pressure in Fidel's head released.

Eleanora didn't pause. Her hands moved like lightning. She drove five more needles into specific pressure points across his scalp and neck.

She turned back to the case, grabbed a glass syringe, and drew a pale blue liquid from one of the vials.

She grabbed Fidel's forearm, her grip bruisingly tight. She found the vein and pushed the needle in, injecting the serum straight into his bloodstream.

The cold liquid rushed through Fidel's veins.

Instantly, the blinding agony that had tortured him for five years evaporated. It didn't fade; it was violently shut off.

A heavy, crushing wave of exhaustion slammed into his brain.

Fidel opened his eyes, trying to look at the woman standing over him.

Before he could form a single word, his eyelids fluttered shut, and his body went completely limp against the sofa.