The power drill screamed through the thick afternoon heat inside the Pine Creek garage.

Allison was bent halfway under the hood of a wrecked Mustang, motor oil and stale sweat pasted to her skin.

Ricky, the teenage apprentice, stood three feet away with a wrench in his hand. His eyes were wide. He couldn’t keep up with her hands—they moved fast, greasy, and sure, stripping wires before he could blink.

She grabbed a tangled knot of cables and yanked hard.

The dead engine coughed once. Then it roared to life, the deep rumble shaking through the concrete floor.

“Holy shit,” Ricky breathed out, stepping back. That engine was supposed to be scrap metal.

Allison didn’t smile. She tossed a filthy rag onto the hood. Her face was blank, jaw set like concrete.

On the metal workbench behind her, a cracked cell phone started vibrating violently. The caller ID flashed a number from Aethelgard.

Allison’s stomach tightened. A cold, oily disgust coated the back of her throat. She wiped a streak of grease from her thumb and hit speaker.

“Stop playing around in the dirt, Allison.”

Sterling Conner’s voice filled the garage. Arrogant. Impatient. The voice of a man who thought he owned the world.

Allison let out a slow breath and reached for a half-empty can of cola on the bench.

“You are to be at the Aethelgard estate tomorrow morning,” Sterling ordered. “No excuses. I’m done letting you embarrass this family.”

She hooked her finger under the tab and popped it open. The sharp hiss cut through the garage.

“Dream on,” she said, flat and dead.

A sharp intake of breath came from the other end. Sterling wasn’t used to hearing no.

“You ungrateful little bitch,” he snarled, his voice climbing. “You think you have a choice?”

Allison took a sip. The icy burn slid down her throat. She said nothing.

“If you aren’t standing in my foyer by tomorrow,” Sterling dropped his voice to a lethal register, “I will permanently freeze your mother’s trust fund. Every single cent.”

The word mother hit her like a fist to the gut.

Her fingers clamped down on the can. The aluminum shrieked and crumpled. Cola spilled over her knuckles and dripped onto the concrete.

Ricky took another step back, his shoulder blades hitting the tool rack. The air in the garage turned heavy. He stared at the girl, heart hammering against his ribs.

Allison closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in a sharp, jagged motion. She needed that trust fund. Not for the money, but for the safety deposit box keys hidden inside the accounts. Keys that led straight to the 319 Project.

She forced her muscles to uncoil. Her eyes opened.

“I have a private matter to handle tomorrow,” she said, her voice dropping back to a lazy drawl. “I’ll be there the day after.”

Sterling let out a harsh laugh. “Don’t play games with me, Allison. You have forty-eight hours. Or you get nothing.”

The line went dead.

Allison stared at the phone. Then she hurled the crushed can across the room. It slammed into the metal trash bin ten yards away with a deafening crash.

“Are you... are you really going back to those people?” Ricky asked, his voice shaking.

She turned to the tool rack and pulled a custom tactical knife from the magnetic strip. The blade caught the dim light. She bent down and slid it into the hidden sheath inside her black combat boot.

“Everything that belongs to me,” Allison said softly, “I’m taking it back. With interest.”

She walked to the rusted sink in the corner, grabbed a bar of gritty soap, and scrubbed the oil from her hands. The cold water rushed over her left wrist, washing over the thick black band secured there. A tiny red light on the band pulsed twice.

Her core temperature was dropping. The anger had triggered it.

Allison reached into the front pocket of her jeans, pulled out a small white pill, and swallowed it dry. It scratched the back of her throat. Within seconds, the freezing sensation in her veins began to recede. A faint flush of color returned to her pale cheeks. Her breathing leveled out.

She grabbed her heavy black leather jacket from a hook on the wall, shoved her arms into the sleeves, and zipped it up to her chin, hiding the pale skin of her neck.

Outside, she swung her leg over her heavily modified black motorcycle and pulled her matte black helmet over her head. She kicked the starter. The bike let out a deafening roar.

Allison twisted the throttle. The motorcycle tore out of the dirt lot and shot into the dark road toward the death tracks.

The morning fog still clung to the cracked highway leading into Pine Creek. A sudden, violent shudder ripped through the chassis of the black Maybach. The engine gave a pathetic metallic grind and died.

Pierce slammed his fist against the dashboard. “Dammit! There’s zero cell service out here. Nothing.”

In the back seat, Graham pushed his door open and stepped out onto the gravel. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit jacket pulling tight across his back. His sharp jaw was set, dark eyes scanning the desolate landscape without a flicker of panic.

Pierce scrambled out, staring at the white smoke pouring from under the hood. “We are going to miss the briefing tonight. In this godforsaken wasteland.”

Graham didn’t look at him. He raised his right hand, thumb finding the heavy black ring on his pinky finger. He twisted it once.

“There are fresh tire tracks heading two miles up the road,” he said, voice low and steady. “There’s a shop.”

They started walking. Loose gravel crunched under their Italian leather shoes. Dust coated the expensive leather immediately.

They rounded a sharp bend. A dilapidated corrugated iron structure came into view. Faded, aggressive graffiti covered the walls.

Pierce pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You think some backwoods hick in that dump can fix a V12 engine?”

Graham ignored him and walked straight toward the half-open rolling metal door. The sharp clank of metal hitting metal echoed from inside.

They stepped into the dim, dusty interior. The air smelled of rust and old gasoline.

Graham’s eyes adjusted to the shadows. He stopped.

Ten feet away, someone was lying flat on a mechanic’s creeper, slid halfway under the chassis of a lifted truck. Grease-stained cargo pants. Long, straight legs bent at the knees, coiled with a raw strength.

The metallic clanking stopped.

With a swift, fluid motion, the creeper rolled out from under the truck. Allison sat up.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, streaks of grease smeared across one sharp cheekbone. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and completely empty of welcome.

Pierce froze. His mouth opened slightly. He hadn’t expected to find a girl in a place like this—let alone a girl with a face that striking, carrying an aura that felt like a loaded gun.

Graham’s gaze dropped to her right hand. She was casually gripping a heavy-duty wrench. His eyes narrowed. He could smell it on her—not just grease, but the faint, metallic scent of blood and adrenaline.

Pierce recovered his composure and plastered on his signature playboy smile. He took a step forward. “Hey there. Is the boss around?”

Allison didn’t blink. She tossed the heavy wrench onto a metal table. It landed with a loud crash.

“Get out,” she said. One word. Flat and sharp.

Pierce’s smile vanished. He choked on his next breath, completely thrown off. His charm usually worked like magic. Here, it hit a brick wall.

Graham stepped forward, smoothly placing himself in front of Pierce. His presence instantly dominated the cramped space.

“Our car broke down,” Graham said. His voice was deep, carrying the weight of a man used to giving orders. “Name your price.”

Allison finally shifted her gaze to Graham.

Their eyes locked. The air in the garage tightened.

She took in the perfect cut of his suit, then her eyes flicked to his left wrist. A limited-edition Patek Philippe. A walking ATM.

She picked up a filthy rag and slowly wiped the grease from her fingers. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a mocking smirk.

“Five figures. Cash. Upfront.”

Pierce let out an angry laugh. “Five figures? For a backwoods mechanic?” He reached into his jacket for his black card.

Graham raised a single hand. Pierce stopped dead.

Graham reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. He walked to the greasy metal table and slammed the cash down.

Allison stared at the money. Her heart rate didn’t change, but her mind calculated quickly. She needed untraceable cash to grease the wheels for her return to Aethelgard.

She swept the stack into her pocket without a word of thanks.

She snapped her fingers. Ricky jumped from the shadows in the corner.

“Take the rig. Go get their car.”

Ricky scrambled out the door, fired up the rusted tow truck, and peeled out of the lot.

Silence fell over the garage.

Graham walked over to a half-assembled motorcycle sitting on a stand. His eyes traced the exposed exhaust pipes.

“The welding on this manifold,” Graham said casually, not looking at her, “is professional-grade racing spec. Not something you learn in a small-town shop.”

Allison’s spine went rigid. The muscles in her arms tightened.

She moved fast, stepping directly between Graham and the bike. Her chest was inches from his arm.

“Don’t touch my things,” she warned, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Or I’ll break your fingers.”

Graham looked down at her. She was glaring at him like a cornered leopard. He didn’t feel insulted. Instead, something dark and fascinated sparked in his chest. This girl was a puzzle. And he was going to rip it apart piece by piece.

The screech of the tow truck’s brakes shattered the silence. Ricky violently backed the rig into the center of the garage and dropped the Maybach onto the concrete with a heavy thud.

Pierce winced. “Hey! Watch the undercarriage, you animal!”

Allison ignored him. She grabbed a heavy black toolbox and walked to the front of the luxury car. She didn’t bother looking for the hood release inside. She shoved her fingers under the edge and forced it up.

A massive cloud of boiling white steam exploded from the engine bay.

Allison didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back. She let the scalding mist wash over her face, her expression completely dead.

Graham stood three yards away, arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes locked onto her, tracking every tiny movement of her hands.

She pulled on a pair of thick rubber gloves and plunged her hands into the burning, complex maze of V12 engine wiring. Her fingers moved with terrifying speed, navigating the components like she was playing a piano.

Ten seconds later, she pulled her hands out.

“The ECU overloaded,” she said coldly. “It locked the fuel injection system.”

Pierce scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. “You didn’t even hook up an OBD scanner! You expect me to believe you diagnosed a computer failure by looking at it?”

Allison didn’t waste breath answering. She reached into her toolbox and pulled out a massive, solid steel hammer. She weighed it in her hand.

Pierce’s eyes bulged. He lunged forward. “Are you out of your mind? Put that down!”

Allison didn’t look at him. She swung her arm back. The heavy hammer sliced through the air, missing Pierce’s nose by an inch. He stumbled backward, heart hammering.

Without hesitating, she brought the hammer down with brutal force.

CRASH.

The steel head smashed into a pristine metal shielding plate deep inside the engine bay. The plate shattered, exposing a cluster of melted, blackened wires hidden underneath.

Pierce stared at the burnt wires, mouth hanging open. He was completely speechless.

Graham’s breath caught. A jolt of pure shock hit him. His top engineers in Washington needed hours and a million dollars in diagnostic equipment to find a fault like that. She found it in ten seconds. By instinct.

Allison dropped the hammer. It clattered against the concrete. She grabbed a pair of wire cutters and a spool of thick copper wire.

She started stripping the wires with her bare hands and twisted the copper together, bypassing the burnt circuits in a crude, violent hotwire. Sparks flew, biting into the skin of her wrists. She didn’t even blink.

Three minutes later, she ripped a piece of electrical tape with her teeth and wrapped it tight. She stepped back.

She looked at Ricky and jerked her chin toward the driver’s seat. “Start it.”

Ricky swallowed hard, opened the door, slid in, and pushed the ignition button.

The Maybach’s engine turned over instantly, settling into a smooth, powerful purr.

Pierce walked around the front of the car, eyes wide. He checked the dashboard. No warning lights. He stared at the smooth hum of the engine, his initial rage dissolving into dumbfounded awe. He had never seen anyone bypass a fried ECU with bare hands and a hammer. He looked back at the girl, a newfound reverence replacing his arrogance.

Allison peeled off the rubber gloves and threw them on the bench. She walked straight up to Graham and held out her hand, her palm stained with fresh motor oil.

“Double the price.”

Graham looked at her hand, then up to her face. The sheer audacity made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

He reached into his jacket again and pulled out another stack of bills. Instead of dropping them into her hand, he pressed the money firmly into her palm.

His thumb deliberately brushed against her skin. He felt the thick, hard calluses at the base of her fingers. Calluses that didn’t come from turning wrenches. They came from holding weapons.

Allison jerked her hand back like she had been burned. Her eyes flashed with pure murder.

“Watch your hands,” she hissed.

Graham held his hands up in mock surrender, but his eyes were entirely serious. “Skills like that are wasted in a place like this.”

Allison shoved the money into her pocket. “None of your business. The car runs. Get out.”

Pierce stepped forward, his tone shifting into genuine, almost desperate respect. “Seriously, what’s your name? If this thing breaks down again, I’m calling you.”

Allison turned her back to them and waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder. She didn’t give them a name. She didn’t give them a look.

Graham got into the back seat of the Maybach and rolled down the tinted window, his eyes burning into her retreating back.

As the car pulled out of the dirt lot, Graham pulled a heavily encrypted satellite phone from his pocket and dialed a secure line.

“I want everything,” he ordered, voice cold and absolute. “Pull the background on the owner of the Pine Creek garage. Every breath she’s ever taken.”