Jessie didn't run. Running was for prey. She moved with purpose, with angles, using the panicked crowd as cover, sliding between stalls, ducking under hanging tarps.

The main doors at the far end of the cavern burst open. Not exploded. Worse. Opened with absolute control, absolute authority. Men in black poured through, weapons up. Behind them, a man in a coat that cost more than Vince's entire life.

Bryce Hogan. His left arm was in a sling, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd.

Jessie felt her heart stutter. She felt her skin go cold, then hot, the inhibitor fighting a losing battle against adrenaline.

She turned a corner, found a corridor, narrow, lined with storage containers. Dead end. Or-

There. A ladder, bolted to the wall, leading up to a catwalk. She climbed, fast, silent, her boots finding the rungs without looking.

She reached the top and moved along the catwalk, crouching, staying low. Below, she saw Bryce enter the corridor. He wasn't looking around randomly. He was following precise instructions from the man on the catwalk opposite her, the one with the binoculars. Julian.

She didn't wait. She found the stairs at the end of the catwalk, took them down, emerged into a different section of the market. Quieter. Industrial. Shipping containers stacked like building blocks, creating a maze of shadows and dead ends.

She moved into it. She needed to get out. She needed to-

"Stop."

The voice was behind her. Close. Ten meters, maybe less.

Jessie turned.

Bryce Hogan stood at the entrance to the container maze, his coat open, his good hand resting on a gun at his waist. His face was pale in the fluorescent light, his eyes dark holes. "I know it's you," he said. "The girl in the alley. The one who creates chaos."

Jessie said nothing. She was a scared student. She let her hand drift toward her bag, as if to clutch it for comfort. Inside, her fingers found the hilt of her knife.

"You're a very good actress," he continued, walking forward, slow, deliberate. "But the thermal scans don't lie. And neither does a perfectly executed distraction. Now, you're going to tell me what you did to me in those woods."

He was ten meters away. Eight. Six.

Jessie was boxed in.

Bryce stopped five meters away. He drew his gun. "Take off the glasses," he said. "Let me see your face."

Jessie smiled. A small, sad, terrified smile.

Then she moved.

She went up, not forward. Her foot found the edge of a container, pushed off, her body unfolding into the air. Bryce's gun came up, tracking, but she was already above his line of fire, dropping down behind him, her knife in her hand.

He turned. Fast. Faster than she expected for a man with one arm in a sling. His good arm came up, blocking her strike, the blade skimming along his forearm, cutting fabric, finding flesh. He didn't flinch. He grabbed her wrist, his fingers like iron, and pulled her into him.

Close. Too close. The moment his skin touched hers, a jolt went through him. He had braced for the wave of revulsion that always came with touching someone unclean, someone from the street. It didn't come. Her skin was hot, shockingly so, but... clean. The thought was a flicker of lightning in the storm of the fight, a baffling detail that his mind filed away even as his body reacted. He could smell his own blood, copper on the air. He could feel her breath on his cheek.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Jessie answered with her knee, driving up into his stomach. He twisted, taking the blow on his hip, his grip never loosening. She felt her arm bend, her shoulder strain, and she moved with it, letting him pull her off-balance, using the momentum to spin behind him.

Her free hand found his neck. Her fingers pressed into the carotid, feeling for the pressure point that would drop him.

He elbowed her. Hard. With his injured arm. The pain must have been immense, but he drove it back into her ribs, right side. She felt something give, a sharp crack, pain like lightning. She gasped, her grip loosening, and he threw her off.

She hit a container, back first, the air leaving her lungs. She slid down, her vision sparking.

Bryce was advancing, gun raised. "Don't move."

Jessie moved.

She threw her knife. Not at him-past him, into the shadows, where it clanged against metal. He flinched, instinct, his eyes tracking the sound for half a second.

Half a second was enough.

She was on him, inside his guard, her palm striking his nose, her knee finding his thigh. He grunted, stumbled, and she was past him, running, her ribs screaming with every step.

"Stop!" he shouted.

She didn't stop. She found the corridor she'd seen earlier, the one that led to the maintenance tunnels. She ran. Behind her, she heard his men closing in. She needed distance.

Her hand found her belt. The last smoke grenade. She pulled the pin and dropped it behind her.

White smoke exploded, filling the corridor. She heard coughing, cursing, Bryce's voice rising above the rest: "Find her! I want her found!"

She kept running, up a ladder, through a hatch, into the night air of Las Vegas.

The alley was a narrow gap between a closed laundromat and a boarded-up convenience store. The overhang offered shelter from a sudden drizzle. Jessie leaned against the wall, her ribs a bonfire of pain, letting herself become part of the shadows. She'd been walking for hours, circling, making sure she wasn't followed. The disguise was blown. The safe house was compromised. She was out of options.

The sound came from behind the dumpster. A rustle, a whimper, something small and hurt.

Jessie looked. A cat, black, soaked, its back leg bent at an angle that made her stomach clench. It saw her and hissed, flattening itself against the brick.

She reached into her bag. The jerky was there, the cheap kind from the gas station. She broke off a piece, held it out, waited.

The cat sniffed. It limped forward, three-legged, desperate, and took the meat from her fingers.

Jessie smiled, a genuine, tired smile. She stroked the cat's wet fur, feeling it tremble. She broke off more, fed it piece by piece.

The headlights hit her without warning. Three vehicles, black, blocking the alley entrance, their high beams turning the rain to silver needles. Doors opened. Men emerged, silent, efficient, taking positions.

Jessie didn't move. She kept her hand on the cat, her head down. She was out of tricks. Out of energy.

She heard footsteps, heavy, deliberate, coming closer. She smelled cologne, expensive, cold, underneath the rain.

"It's over," Bryce said.

Jessie felt her heart rate spike, felt her skin start to warm, and forced it down. She was someone else. She was no one. She was invisible. It was a lie, but it was all she had left.

She turned.

Slowly. Scared. Her shoulders hunched, her eyes wide behind the glasses, her mouth slightly open. She gave him the performance of his life.

Bryce Hogan stood three meters away, rain dripping from his hair, his coat unbuttoned, his left arm still in the sling. He looked at her face, at the choppy hair, the fake freckles, the cheap glasses.

He frowned. He took a step closer. She smelled his cologne stronger now, and underneath it, something else. Blood. Fresh. The wound on his forearm had reopened.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice low, dangerous.

"J-Jessie," she stammered. "I go to school, I was just-my cat, I mean, not my cat, but-"

She let her voice trail off, let her eyes fill with tears she didn't feel. She watched his expression shift from suspicion to disgust. He didn't like tears. He didn't like weakness. He was looking for the predator he'd fought in the maze, not this pathetic girl.

"Have you seen anyone else?" he asked. "A woman. Dangerous. About your height."

Jessie shook her head. Fast. Too fast. She forced herself to slow down. "No, sir. Just me. Just the cat. I didn't see anyone."

He stared at her. His eyes were dissecting her, peeling back the layers. She felt naked under his gaze.

"Sir," a voice said softly. Julian. He stepped into the light, his own suit damp, his expression unreadable. "The thermal scan is active. There are no other signatures in the immediate area. It's just her."

"Wait." Bryce didn't look away from Jessie. He took another step closer, close enough that she could see the pulse in his throat. Close enough to touch.

He reached out. His hand moved toward her face, toward the glasses, toward the disguise she'd built so carefully.

Jessie held her breath.

Bryce's fingers stopped an inch from her cheek. She saw him hesitate, saw the war between his suspicion and his disgust, his need to know and his need to not touch.

"Sir," Julian said again, closer now, his voice a calm anchor in the tension. "Allow me. You shouldn't exert yourself."

Bryce lowered his hand. He stepped back, but his eyes never left her.

Julian moved into her field of vision. He had kind eyes and a smile that didn't reach them. "Jessie," he said, making her name sound like a caress. "I'm Julian. I'm just going to ask you some questions. You're safe here. No one is going to hurt you. You can relax."

She felt it immediately, the pull, the suggestion wrapping around her thoughts like smoke. Hypnosis. Or something close to it.

She let her eyes go unfocused. She let her shoulders drop. She played the subject.

"That's right," Julian murmured. "Very good. Now, Jessie, I want you to think back. Did you see a woman running? Perhaps looking frightened?"

Jessie shook her head. Slow. Dreamy. "No... just the rain... just the cat..."

"Are you sure?" Julian's voice sharpened, just slightly. "Your pupils dilated when I mentioned a running woman. Your heart rate increased. Why is that?"

He was good. He was reading her biometrics. The trap was closing. She needed to move. She needed-

"Where is your knife, Jessie?"

The question came like a whip crack. She felt her body tense, the instinct to reach for the blade that wasn't there, and caught herself almost too late.

Almost.

She let her knees buckle. She let herself fall forward, her hands reaching out. Her fingers found the cat, still eating, and she closed around its scruff and threw.

The cat screamed. It flew through the air, a ball of wet fur and panic, straight at Bryce Hogan's chest.

Bryce's face changed. The mask of control shattered, revealing a flash of absolute terror underneath. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing, his mouth open in a choked sound. The cat hit his coat, claws finding purchase, mud and rain and fur smearing across the perfect wool.

"Get it off!" he shouted, his voice high and thin. "Get it off me!"

Chaos. The security team surged forward. Julian's concentration broke.

Jessie ran.

She grabbed her bag and she ran, her feet finding the gaps between the dumpsters, her body low, her ribs screaming. She heard Bryce shouting behind her, heard the wet sounds of him tearing off his coat.

She reached the street. She turned left, then right, then left again, losing herself in the grid of downtown Las Vegas. She didn't stop until she found a bus station, a bench, a place to collapse.

She sat with her head in her hands and her heart hammering against her cracked ribs and waited for the shaking to stop.

Three blocks away, in the alley, Julian Adler stood in the rain and watched the direction she'd gone.

He'd seen it. In the moment before she fell-he'd seen the calculation in her eyes.

He pulled out his phone and typed a message to Bryce, who was still in the alley, scrubbing his hands with alcohol wipes from a medkit.

Subject requires further investigation. The distraction was too precise. Also, her thermal signature is anomalous, significantly above baseline for a person at rest in these conditions. Recommend campus surveillance. She is not what she appears.

He sent it. He stood in the rain a moment longer, remembering the way she'd thrown that cat with absolute precision, hitting the one target that would create the maximum possible chaos.

Then he walked back to the SUVs, and the night swallowed him whole.