The Chevrolet sped down the highway. Carl kept his eyes glued to the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Suddenly, three black Cadillac Escalades swerved across the lanes. They moved in a tight, military-style Pincer formation, boxing the Chevrolet in and forcing it toward the shoulder.

Carl panicked. He slammed his foot on the brake pedal.

The tires screamed against the asphalt. The smell of burning rubber filled the cabin. Aubree's body jerked forward from the massive momentum, but her core muscles locked instantly. She stabilized herself in the seat before her hands even touched the leather.

The middle Escalade parked diagonally, completely blocking their path.

The heavy door was kicked open. Kareem Hopkins stepped out. He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles ticked beneath his skin.

Six massive bodyguards poured out of the other vehicles. They wore tactical earpieces. They surrounded the Chevrolet in seconds.

Kareem marched to the rear window. He slammed his open palm against the glass.

Aubree pressed the button. The window rolled down smoothly. She stared at the face that mirrored her own, feeling absolutely nothing.

Kareem reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out a thick white envelope and threw it violently through the window. It hit Aubree's thigh and spilled open.

A one-way first-class ticket to South America slid out. Beneath it lay a trust fund check. One million dollars.

"Take the money and get the hell out of New York," Kareem spat. His voice shook with raw hatred. "Don't you ever pollute my family's air again."

Aubree didn't look at the check. She reached for the door handle and shoved the door open with brutal force.

The heavy metal edge slammed into Kareem's hip. He stumbled backward, his expensive shoes scraping awkwardly against the pavement.

Aubree stepped out of the car. Her worn combat boot planted firmly onto the million-dollar check, grinding the signature into the dirt.

Kareem's face flushed dark red. He tugged violently at his silk tie.

"Throw her in the trunk and dump her at the airport," Kareem barked at the guards.

The closest bodyguard, a man with a jagged scar across his cheek, lunged forward. His massive hand reached for Aubree's shoulder.

Aubree dropped her shoulder half an inch. The man's hand grasped empty air.

In the same fluid motion, her hand shot up. She clamped her fingers around the bodyguard's wrist joint. She pivoted her hips, engaging her entire core in a flawless CQC maneuver, and twisted sharply.

A loud, wet crack echoed over the highway noise.

The scarred man dropped to his knees, screaming. His wrist bent at a grotesque, unnatural angle.

The second guard pulled a steel tactical baton from his belt. He swung it in a vicious arc aimed straight at her skull.

Aubree ducked. The steel baton smashed into the Chevrolet's side mirror, shattering the glass into a hundred pieces.

Before the guard could recover his balance, Aubree launched a devastating side kick. The heel of her boot connected perfectly with the side of his knee.

The joint inverted with a sickening pop. The man collapsed, clutching his ruined leg, his face pale with shock.

The remaining four guards froze for a fraction of a second, then rushed her all at once.

Aubree moved like a ghost. She slipped inside their guard. Her strikes were surgical. A rigid palm strike to a throat. A sharp elbow to a solar plexus. A precise heel stomp to an instep.

It took exactly nine seconds.

Six highly trained men lay groaning and bleeding on the asphalt.

Kareem stood frozen. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated in absolute terror. His chest heaved. He couldn't process the violence he had just witnessed. This was supposed to be his weak, pathetic sister. The girl they had thrown away like garbage seven years ago. But the woman standing before him moved like a military-grade weapon. He stared at her as if she were a complete stranger, a monster wearing Aubree's face. What the hell happened to her out there? The thought screamed in his mind, mingling with his rising panic.

Aubree stepped over a groaning guard. She walked slowly toward Kareem.

Kareem tried to step back, but his legs refused to work.

Aubree reached out. Her cold fingers brushed against his chest. She grabbed his crooked silk tie and yanked it straight.

"Now, it's time for you to step aside." Aubree whispered.

Aubree turned her back on Kareem and walked down the highway shoulder.

The massive pileup caused by Kareem's three Escalades had completely paralyzed the main arteries into Manhattan. Far below the overpass, a convoy of black vehicles had been forced to detour through the desolate, maze-like streets of the industrial district to avoid the gridlock. It was the perfect chokepoint.

A sharp, rhythmic popping sound echoed from the industrial district below the overpass. Automatic gunfire.

Aubree's muscles reacted before her conscious mind did. She vaulted over the concrete barrier and slid down the embankment, landing silently behind a stack of rusted shipping containers.

She peeked around the corrugated metal edge.

The intersection was a slaughterhouse. Two armored Maybachs were smashed against a concrete pillar. Thick black smoke poured from the engines. Four men in suits lay dead on the grates, their blood mixing with the dirty street water.

A man in a black tactical vest walked slowly toward the second Maybach. He held an assault rifle flush against his shoulder.

The rear door of the Maybach was kicked open from the inside. A tall man tumbled out onto the pavement. He wore a bespoke navy suit, but the fabric over his abdomen was soaked in dark, thick blood.

Hays Crane.

The assassin stopped three feet away. He aimed the barrel of the rifle directly at Hays's head.

Aubree looked down. A shard of broken windshield glass lay near her boot. Her agent instincts took over; she swiftly ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of her faded jacket and wrapped it tightly around her palm. She picked it up. The edge was razor-sharp.

She exploded from the shadows. She closed the distance in three silent, sprinting strides.

Just as the assassin's finger tightened on the trigger, Aubree leaped. Her left arm wrapped around his throat like a steel vice, jerking his head back. Her right hand drove the jagged glass deep into the side of his neck, severing the carotid artery.

Hot, high-pressure blood sprayed across her knuckles.

The assassin dropped the rifle. He collapsed to the asphalt, his body convulsing violently before going completely still.

Aubree kicked the rifle away. She dropped to one knee beside Hays.

Hays's vision was swimming. The blood loss made the world spin. He could only see the dark silhouette of a woman against the harsh sunlight.

Aubree grabbed the lapels of his ruined suit and ripped his shirt open. The bullet wound in his abdomen was pulsing blood.

She pressed both of her blood-slicked hands directly into the wound, applying massive, agonizing pressure to the ruptured artery.

Hays let out a guttural groan. His body arched off the pavement in pure agony. He tried to shove her away.

"Shut up and stay still if you want to breathe," Aubree ordered. Her voice was ice-cold, carrying absolute, unquestionable authority.

The sound of her voice hit Hays like a physical blow.

A violent electric shock ripped through his fractured memories. A flash of fire. A crumbling building. The back of a female Valkyrie pulling him from the rubble three years ago.

Aubree reached into the dead assassin's tactical vest. She pulled out a tourniquet, a packet of alcohol wipes, and a tube of military-grade clotting gel. Her fingers moved with blinding, mechanical speed. She packed the wound and sealed it in seconds. Without missing a beat, she tore open the alcohol wipes and thoroughly scrubbed her own blood-slicked fingers, erasing any trace of her biometric data from his skin and clothes.

Hays forced his eyes open. He reached up with a trembling, bloody hand. His fingers wrapped tightly around Aubree's wrist.

"Who are you?" Hays rasped. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek looked ready to snap.

The wail of NYPD sirens pierced the air. A police helicopter chopped through the sky overhead.

Aubree looked down at his hand. She grabbed his thumb and peeled his grip off her wrist with ruthless efficiency. She dropped his arm onto the pavement.

She stood up, grabbed her canvas bag, and sprinted into the maze of the Brooklyn alleys.

Hays watched her disappear. Right before the darkness took him, his eyes locked onto a specific, special wear mark on the shoulder of her olive jacket. He burned the image into his brain.

Aubree walked up the long, crushed-gravel driveway of the Hopkins Manor.

The massive Tudor-style mansion loomed against the setting sun like a gloomy, oppressive fortress. The head butler stood at the top of the marble steps. He saw Aubree walking on foot. His upper lip curled in a visible sneer.

He didn't signal any of the staff to help her with her dusty canvas bag.

Aubree ignored him. She climbed the heavy marble stairs and pushed open the front doors.

The grand foyer was blindingly bright, lit by a massive crystal chandelier. Kennedy stood in the center of the room. She wore a pristine, white haute couture dress. She was arranging white lilies in a crystal vase.

Kennedy heard the footsteps. She turned around. Her face instantly stretched into a wide, flawless smile.

"Aubree! You're home!" Kennedy shrieked. Her voice was dripping with artificial sweetness, loud enough to echo into the hallways where the maids were listening.

Kennedy dropped her shears. She ran forward, throwing her arms wide open to pull Aubree into a tight embrace.

Aubree stopped walking. She shifted her weight and stepped smoothly to the right.

Kennedy stumbled forward, her arms wrapping around empty air. She caught her balance, her smile freezing. A flash of pure, venomous hatred sparked in her eyes.

Kennedy instantly recovered. Her hand moved up, her fingertips lightly touching her own collarbone-her tell when she was playing the victim.

"Oh, look at you," Kennedy said, her voice dropping into a tone of deep pity. She looked at Aubree's worn jacket. "Carl was supposed to bring you to the door. Why did he make you walk? That is so unacceptable."

The maids dusting the banisters stopped moving. They stared at Aubree, waiting for the wild, violent reaction they had all been warned about.

Kennedy took a step closer. She reached out to grab Aubree's hand.

Aubree looked down at Kennedy's perfectly manicured fingers.

"Your green tea perfume is giving me a migraine," Aubree said. Her voice was low, meant only for Kennedy. "Back up."

Kennedy's face turned bright crimson. The flawless mask cracked. She bit her lower lip, and tears instantly welled up in her eyes.

The butler stepped forward, his chest puffed out. He glared at Aubree. "Miss Aubree, there is no need for such hostility. Miss Kennedy has been nothing but gracious."

Aubree completely ignored the butler. She didn't even look at him.

She adjusted the strap of her canvas bag and walked past them. Her heavy boots thudded against the polished hardwood floors.

"I had the best guest room prepared for you!" Kennedy called out behind her, her voice trembling with fake sorrow.

Aubree didn't break her stride. She walked down the dark, narrow hallway to the back of the house. She pushed open the door to the small, neglected bedroom she used to occupy.

The air inside was stale. A thick layer of dust coated the bare mattress. The staff hadn't touched this room in years.

Aubree tossed her bag onto the springs. She turned around and locked the heavy wooden door until it clicked. From downstairs, she could faintly hear Kennedy's saccharine voice complaining to the maids about how her sister's personality was still so peculiar.