Miller tried to crawl toward the driver's side door.

Kaela stepped on his calf. She didn't stomp; she just applied pressure, slowly increasing the weight until he cried out.

"Stay," she commanded.

She crouched down, bringing her face level with his. The rain plastered his comb-over to his sweating forehead. She reached out with the silver pin and traced the line of his expensive silk tie, right over his jugular.

"Who placed the order?" she asked.

"I... I work for Mr. Moon," Miller stammered, his eyes crossing as he looked at the sharp point of silver. "You can't touch me. I'm-"

Kaela pushed the pin a millimeter into the skin of his neck. Not enough to kill, just enough to sting.

"Wrong answer."

"Jenna!" Miller shrieked. "It was Jenna! And Candace! They wanted a video. They wanted to see you begging."

Kaela's eyes narrowed. Of course. The sister and the stepmother. They didn't just want her to take the fall for the merger; they wanted to humiliate her first.

She reached into Miller's jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. She grabbed his thumb and jammed it onto the sensor. The screen unlocked.

She scrolled through the texts.

Jenna: Make sure she's broken before she gets on the plane. I want to see tears.

Candace: Don't mark the face. She needs to look pretty for the altar.

Kaela let out a short, dry laugh. "They want a broken bride?" She stood up, hauling Miller to his feet by his lapels. She slammed him against the hood of the car. "Call them."

"What?"

"Call them. Tell them I'm a mess. Tell them I'm crying in the corner and I wet myself."

Miller's hands shook so hard he almost dropped the phone. He dialed.

"Speaker," Kaela whispered, pressing the cold metal of the pin against his ear.

Candace's voice filled the air, sharp and impatient. "Is it done?"

"Yes... yes, Mrs. Moon," Miller stuttered, tears mixing with the rain on his face. "It's done. She... she's a wreck. Curled up in a ball. Won't stop shaking."

"Excellent," Candace purred. "Put her on the plane. Clean her up a bit, but keep her terrified. We'll handle the rest in New York."

The line went dead.

Kaela released him. Miller slid down the grill, collapsing into a heap.

"Get in the car," she said.

"But... the window..."

"Drive fast. The wind will dry the seats."

She turned back to the pile of groaning bodies. She crouched over the leader, rifling through his pockets. She found a wad of cash and a tactical knife. She took both.

Her own phone vibrated. A secure line. Once she was sure Miller couldn't see, she unzipped a hidden compartment in the lining of her canvas bag, revealing the compact, high-tech device. The message was encrypted.

Onyx: Biometrics spiked. You okay, K?

Kaela typed back with one hand while walking to the car.

K: Trash taken out. Send PD to the location with the robbery evidence on this crew.

Onyx: Copy. New ticket just came in. Urgent. Code 'Zeus'. Neurotoxin exposure. Location: I-94, Mile Marker 30. Kaufman Convoy.

Kaela paused with her hand on the door handle.

Kaufman. Her fiancé's family.

"Miller," she said, sliding into the back seat and ignoring the glass shards. "Change of plans. We're making a stop."

"We're going to miss the flight," Miller argued weakly from the front.

"Drive to Mile Marker 30. Now."

As the car merged back onto the highway, the wind howling through the broken window, Kaela opened her canvas bag. She pulled out a small, unassuming leather roll. Inside were vials of liquids that didn't have labels, just color codes.

She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked wild. Dangerous.

She reached for a medical mask and a dark hoodie from her bag. She pulled the hoodie up, shadowing her face, and snapped the mask on.

"Who are you?" Miller asked, glancing in the mirror, his voice trembling.

Kaela looked at his eyes in the reflection.

"I'm the cleaner," she said.

The Kaufman convoy was a fortress on wheels. Three black Subaru SUVs sat on the shoulder of I-94, hazard lights blinking in the downpour. Private military contractors with assault rifles stood guard, their postures tense.

Miller pulled the battered Lincoln up behind them.

"Stay here," Kaela ordered.

She stepped out, clutching a beat-up first aid kit that contained things no pharmacy sold. She walked toward the convoy, hands raised, displaying a digital token on her phone screen.

A guard stepped forward, weapon raised. "Back off."

"Onyx sent me," she said, her voice muffled by the mask. She flashed the screen. The code cycled: Zeus-Priority-Alpha.

The guard lowered his weapon, talking into his earpiece. "Clear her."

He led her to the middle SUV. The door slid open.

The smell hit her first. Antiseptic, stale sweat, and underneath it all, the faint, metallic tang of blood mixed with sandalwood.

A man lay reclined in the captain's chair. Even pale and sweating, Barron Kaufman was devastating. High cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and dark hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut, his chest heaving in erratic, shallow gasps.

A woman in a white coat-Dr. Sterling-was hovering over a monitor. "Tachycardia. 140 bpm. He's hallucinating. The sedatives aren't working."

Kaela climbed in. The door slid shut, sealing out the rain.

"You're the specialist?" Sterling sneered, looking at Kaela's muddy boots and oversized hoodie. "You look like a hobo."

Kaela ignored her. She reached out, placing two fingers on Barron's carotid artery.

His skin was burning. Under her fingertips, his pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. But the moment she touched him, he flinched. His muscles seized, rock hard, then... stopped.

A strange stillness washed over him.

Kaela leaned in. She sniffed the air near his neck. Sandalwood. And something else. A bitter, chemical scent seeping from his pores.

Datura and synthetic scopolamine.

"He's not having a panic attack," Kaela said, her voice flat. "He's in a lucid nightmare loop. Sensory overload."

She opened her kit and pulled out a small spray bottle filled with a cloudy, amber liquid.

"What is that?" Sterling shrieked. "That is not FDA approved! You cannot-"

"Shut up," Kaela said. She didn't look up. She sprayed the mist directly into Barron's face. "It's concentrated Mandrake root and beta-blockers. It cuts the noise."

Barron inhaled the mist.

Almost instantly, his chest stopped heaving. The monitor beeped-a slower, steady rhythm. 130... 110... 90... 80.

Sterling stared at the screen, mouth agape. "That's... impossible."

Barron lay still. His eyes were closed, but his mind was racing. The screaming in his head-the drill, the fire, the crash-had silenced. Replaced by a cool, dark void. And a scent. Rain, ozone, and something herbal.

He felt a hand on his neck. Cool. Firm. Grounding.

For the first time in months, the pain was gone.

Kaela capped the bottle. She turned to Sterling. "Tell Alistair Kaufman someone is slow-dosing his grandson. This isn't TBI. It's poisoning."

Sterling paled. "Who are you?"

Kaela pulled her hood lower. "Someone who got paid."

Her phone buzzed. Transfer complete. $50,000.

She turned to leave.

Suddenly, a hand shot out.

Barron's fingers wrapped around the hem of her hoodie. His grip was crushing. His knuckles turned white. It wasn't the weak grasp of an invalid. It was the desperate anchor of a drowning man.

Kaela froze. She tried to pull away. He wouldn't let go.

"It's... a spasm," Sterling stammered. "Post-seizure reflex."

Kaela looked down at the hand. Veins popped against the skin. He was strong. Too strong.

She leaned down, bringing her masked face inches from his ear.

"Let go, rich boy," she whispered. "I know you're awake."

Barron's fingers twitched. He held for a second longer-a challenge-and then, slowly, deliberately, his fingers uncurled.

Kaela pulled back and exited the vehicle into the rain.

Inside the SUV, Barron Kaufman opened his eyes. They were dark, clear, and focused. There was no madness in them. Only the cold, calculating look of a predator who had just found a new scent.

The private airfield was a desolate stretch of wet tarmac. The Kaufman family's Gulfstream G650 sat waiting, its engines whining a high-pitched song.

Kaela climbed out of Miller's car. She had stripped off the hoodie and mask in the back seat, stuffing them deep into her bag. She was back to being the "redneck"-flannel shirt, messy hair, eyes downcast.

Miller stayed in the car, too terrified to face the Kaufman security team.

Kaela walked up the stairs. The flight attendant, a woman with a smile so tight it looked painful, blocked the entrance to the main cabin.

"Rear seating for you, Miss Moon," she said, pointing toward the back. "Mr. Kaufman is resting in the medical bay."

Kaela nodded, clutching her canvas bag to her chest. She shuffled past the galley.

The mid-section of the plane had been converted. A hospital bed was bolted to the floor. Barron lay there, eyes closed, an IV line running into his arm. Dr. Sterling sat next to him, reading a tablet.

Sterling looked up. She didn't recognize Kaela. To her, the "masked doctor" and this "Detroit trash" were two different species.

"Don't breathe on him," Sterling snapped. "Go sit in the back."

Kaela mumbled a "yes, ma'am" and tried to squeeze past the narrow gap between the bed and the fuselage.

As she passed, the air shifted. The scent of rain and those strange, bitter herbs on her clothes drifted over the bed.

Barron's heart monitor beeped. A slight jump in rhythm.

It's her.

Barron kept his eyes shut, but his mind was reeling. The scent was identical. The voice he'd heard whisper in his ear-I know you're awake-had the same cadence as her mumble, just stripped of the command.

His fiancée. The country bumpkin. The Fixer.

He had to be sure.

As Kaela squeezed by his hip, Barron let out a low groan. His right arm flailed out, a clumsy, "involuntary" spasm. His hand struck the glass of water on his bedside table.

The glass tipped. Ice water splashed all over Kaela's jeans and the side of the bed.

"Oh my god!" Sterling shrieked, jumping up. "You clumsy idiot! Look what you did!"

Kaela froze. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping the doctor's neck. She crouched down to pick up the glass.

"Sorry," she whispered.

Barron's hand was hanging off the bed, wet from the spill. As Kaela reached for the glass, her hand brushed against his.

Skin on skin.

It was like touching a live wire.

Barron felt that same wave of silence crash over his brain. The static noise that constantly plagued him vanished. Her bio-electricity, or whatever the hell it was, grounded him.

He let his fingers go limp, resting heavily against her hand for a second longer than necessary.

Kaela paused. She felt his pulse through his fingertips. It went from agitated to dead calm in a split second.

He's doing it again, she thought. He's feeding off me.

She pulled her hand away, grabbed the glass, and stood up.

"Go," Sterling hissed. "Get out of the way."

Kaela retreated to the rear of the plane. She sat in the corner seat, buckling the belt. She pulled out a pair of noise-canceling headphones and put them on, shutting out the world.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph. A woman with kind eyes and a tired smile. Her mother.

I'm going into the belly of the beast, Mom, she thought. I'll find out what they did to you.

Up in the medical bay, Barron didn't move. He didn't open his eyes. For the first time in six months, he drifted into a natural, deep sleep.

Sterling watched the monitor, baffled. "REM cycle? He's... sleeping? Without the drip?"

She looked back at the girl in the flannel shirt, then shook her head. Coincidence.

The jet roared down the runway and lifted into the grey sky. Barron slept through the turbulence, his hand still damp where she had touched him. He had found his anchor. And he wasn't going to let her go.