The limousine was dead. The transmission was shot from the abuse Camille had put it through.

Victoria had called a private car service immediately. When the black Mercedes arrived, she and Mia climbed in.

"There isn't room for you," Victoria said, rolling up the window before Camille could even step forward.

They left her on the side of the road with the tow truck driver.

Camille didn't care. She hitched a ride with the tow truck into the city. She needed to think. She needed clothes that didn't smell like prison.

She walked into Bergdorf Goodman.

The air inside was cool and smelled of expensive perfume. It was a scent she used to know well. Now, it felt alien.

A sales associate looked at her frayed trench coat and combat boots. She wrinkled her nose and turned her back, pretending to organize a rack of scarves.

Camille ignored her. She walked toward the men's section. She wanted a suit. Something structured. Armor.

"Camille?"

The voice stopped her. It was a voice that had haunted her nightmares for five years.

She turned slowly.

Gavin Lloyd stood there. He looked exactly the same. Handsome in a polished, superficial way. He was wearing a bespoke suit that probably cost more than the average person made in a year.

He wasn't with Mia.

"It is you," Gavin said, a smirk spreading across his face. He stepped closer, invading her personal space. "I heard they let you out. I didn't think you'd have the nerve to show your face in public."

"Move," Camille said.

"Still feisty," Gavin laughed. He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. His fingers dug into her bicep. "Listen to me, Camille. You're a convict now. You're garbage. Stay away from Mia. Stay away from the family. If you cause trouble, I'll make sure you go back inside for the rest of your life."

Camille looked at his hand on her arm.

"Let go," she said. "I'm counting to three."

"Or what?" Gavin sneered. "One. Two..."

Camille didn't wait for three.

Her right hand shot up, clamping over Gavin's wrist. Her thumb dug into the pressure point between his tendons.

Gavin gasped, his grip loosening.

Camille stepped in, her left leg hooking behind his right ankle. She twisted his arm behind his back, using his own momentum against him.

She pivoted her hips.

Gavin went airborne.

He slammed onto the marble floor with a sickening thud. The air left his lungs in a wheeze.

Shoppers screamed. Security guards started running from the entrance.

Camille dropped her knee onto Gavin's chest. She leaned down, her hand closing around his throat. Not enough to kill, just enough to terrify.

"That was a warning," she whispered. Her eyes were dark voids. "Next time, I break the bone."

Gavin stared up at her, his face pale, eyes bulging. He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe.

"Hey! Get off him!" a guard yelled, reaching for his taser.

From the mezzanine level, Horatio Melton watched. He was holding a cup of espresso, his elbows resting on the railing.

He saw the technique. Krav Maga. Efficient. Brutal.

"Stop," Horatio said to the store manager standing beside him.

The manager blinked. "Sir? That woman is assaulting a customer."

"That woman is defending herself," Horatio said calmly. "Tell your guards to stand down. And tell Mr. Lloyd to leave."

The manager swallowed hard. You didn't argue with Horatio Melton. He grabbed his radio. "Stand down. Let her go. Escort the man out."

Down on the floor, Camille released Gavin. She stood up and brushed invisible dust off her coat. She paid for a stark white suit and a structured leather briefcase to hold the only things she had left from her old life. She didn't buy a purse.

The guards stopped a few feet away, looking confused.

"Ma'am, you're free to go," the head guard said. He looked at Gavin, who was groaning on the floor. "Sir, you need to leave the premises."

"She attacked me!" Gavin wheezed, clutching his back.

"We saw the footage, sir. You grabbed her first," the guard lied smoothly.

Camille frowned. She looked up.

On the balcony, a man in a charcoal suit was watching her. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just nodded, once, and turned away.

Camille narrowed her eyes. She didn't know who he was, but she knew one thing.

She didn't like owing anyone favors.

The internet café was in the basement of a laundromat in Queens. It smelled of ozone and stale ramen.

Camille paid cash for a private booth. She pulled the black credit card Mia had thrown at her out of her pocket. She slid it into the vending machine and bought a bottle of water, then tossed the card into the trash. She wouldn't be needing their charity.

She sat at the computer terminal. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

It had been five years, but the muscle memory was still there.

She bypassed the café's security software in ten seconds. She opened a Tor browser. The screen went black, then green text began to scroll.

She navigated to a site that looked like a generic offshore banking portal.

She typed in the password. Sixty-four characters. She had recited them in her head every night before she slept in her cell.

ACCESS GRANTED.

BALANCE: $500,000,000.00

The number glowed on the screen.

Before prison, Camille hadn't just been a socialite. She was "Dr. X," a shadow consultant for biotech firms and black-market medical research. She solved problems no one else could solve. And she got paid in crypto.

She quickly moved half a million dollars through a series of tumblers and into three separate clean accounts.

She needed cash. But more than that, she needed power. She downloaded a series of heavily encrypted files from the same secure server-the complete research data for the Lazarus Protocol.

She opened a secure forum called The Underground.

A banner ad was pinned to the top in flashing red.

BOUNTY: $50,000,000 USD. INFORMATION LEADING TO DR. X. CONTACT: MELTON MEDIA.

Camille froze.

Melton. Horatio Melton.

She knew the name. Everyone knew the name. His grandfather, Arthur Melton, was dying. A neurodegenerative disease that baffled every doctor in the world.

Camille knew from her research that it wasn't a disease. She also knew she had the only cure.

She looked at the bounty. Fifty million was a lot of money. But she didn't need money. She had five hundred million.

She needed a shield. She needed a weapon to destroy the Haynes family and Gavin Lloyd.

Horatio Melton was the biggest weapon in New York.

She began to type.

Sender: Agent X

Recipient: H. Melton

Message: I know where Dr. X is. But I only speak to Horatio Melton. Face to face.

She hit send.

Across the city, in the penthouse of the Melton Tower, a server chimed.

Horatio looked at the screen. His head of cybersecurity, a nervous man named Miller, was typing furiously.

"We can't trace it, sir. The signal is bouncing off satellites in three different hemispheres. Whoever this is, they're a ghost."

Horatio read the message.

"Reply," Horatio said. "Time and place."

In the café, Camille watched the reply pop up.

She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

Tomorrow. 10 AM. Melton Manor. I will bring proof.

She logged off and wiped the terminal.

She walked out into the night. She found a high-end salon that was still open. She slapped a stack of freshly withdrawn cash on the counter.

"Dye it," she said, pointing to her mousy, prison-faded hair. "Dark brown. Almost black. And cut it sharp."

Two hours later, she looked in the mirror.

The waif was gone. The victim was gone.

The woman in the mirror had sharp cheekbones and hair that framed her face like a helmet of war. She had already purchased a white suit. Crisp. Tailored. It hid the scars on her arms.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Mia.

Mom saved some leftovers for you. Don't be late.

Camille deleted the message.

She wasn't eating leftovers ever again.

The iron gates of the Melton estate were twelve feet high.

Camille stood in front of them, alone. The white suit gleamed in the morning sun.

She pressed the intercom button.

A camera whirred, focusing on her face.

"Name," a voice demanded. It was Jennings, the head butler.

"Agent X," Camille said calmly. "Tell Horatio I'm here."

There was a pause. "Mr. Melton is not accepting visitors without an appointment. Please leave, or I will release the dogs."

The intercom clicked off.

Camille sighed. "Hard way it is."

She pulled out her phone. It was a burner she had modified the night before. She leaned against the iron bars and started tapping.

She found the estate's local network. The firewall was expensive, but it had a flaw. It hadn't been patched for the latest smart-home update.

Camille executed the script.

Inside the manor, chaos erupted.

The sprinkler system in the pristine gardens exploded to life, drenching the three security guards patrolling the perimeter.

In the main house, the polite classical music playing over the speakers cut out. A split second later, heavy metal death rock blasted at maximum volume.

WAKE UP! WAKE UP!

In his study, Horatio flinched as the music shook the walls.

Blake rushed in, covering his ears. "Sir! The system! Someone hijacked the main server!"

Horatio grabbed his phone. A text message appeared on his private, unlisted number.

Open the gate. Or I raise the temperature in your wine cellar by thirty degrees. Goodbye, 1945 Mouton Rothschild.

Horatio walked to the window. He looked down at the monitor showing the front gate.

The woman in the white suit was leaning casually against the bars, checking her nails.

It was her. The driver. The fighter.

Horatio felt a strange sensation in his chest. It wasn't anger. It was amusement.

"Let her in," Horatio said.

"But sir-"

"Let. Her. In."

The music cut off instantly. The gates groaned and swung open.

Camille pocketed her phone. She walked up the long driveway, her heels clicking on the pavement.

Jennings opened the front door. He looked flustered.

"Mr. Melton is in the library," he said stiffly.

Camille walked past him. "I know the way."

She didn't, but she walked with enough confidence that no one questioned her. She found the double doors at the end of the hall and pushed them open.

Horatio stood by the fireplace. He was taller than he looked from a distance. Broad shoulders. Eyes that were the color of cold steel.

"Camille Haynes," Horatio said. "Race car driver. Martial artist. Hacker. You're a woman of many talents."

"Survival skills," Camille corrected.

Horatio stepped closer. The air between them crackled. "Where is Dr. X?"

Camille reached into her briefcase. She pulled out a slim, encrypted tablet, not the battered medical textbook.

"He's dead," Camille lied. "But I have everything he was working on." She tapped the tablet screen, bringing up a complex molecular model. "And everything he knew is in here." She tapped her temple.

Horatio's eyes narrowed. He reached out, his hand closing around her jaw. His grip was firm, testing.

"Are you playing games with me, Camille?" he asked softly. "My grandfather doesn't have time for games."

Camille didn't flinch. She leaned into his touch, challenging him.

"You can kill me," she said. "And your grandfather dies. Or you can listen to my price."

Horatio stared at her. He felt the pulse in her neck against his thumb. It was steady.

He released her.

"You have five minutes," Horatio said. "Convince me."