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.

The Kaufman estate in the Hamptons wasn't a home; it was a fortress of grey stone and cold ambition. High walls, cameras every ten feet, and a gate that looked like it could stop a tank.

The convoy swept through the entrance. Rain lashed against the windows.

As the SUV stopped, the front doors of the manor burst open. The head butler, a man who usually looked like he was carved from granite, ran out into the rain.

"Dr. Sterling!" he shouted. "It's Alistair! He's crashing! Hematemesis!"

Sterling's face went white. She grabbed her bag and sprinted toward the house, leaving Barron and the security team behind.

Two bodyguards hauled Barron into a wheelchair. He slumped over, drool glistening at the corner of his mouth, playing the part perfectly. But under his lashes, his eyes were sharp, scanning the perimeter.

Kaela stepped out of the car. No one looked at her. She was the luggage.

She stood in the rain, listening. Hematemesis. Vomiting blood.

She remembered the file Onyx had sent her. Alistair Kaufman. Suspected poisoning. The only thing holding the family trust together.

If the old man died tonight, Barron-the "invalid"-would be declared incompetent by the board tomorrow. The assets would be stripped. Her marriage contract would be worthless.

No deal.

Kaela tightened her grip on her bag and followed the commotion inside.

She slipped through the grand foyer, unnoticed in the chaos, trailing the medical team up the marble staircase.

The master bedroom smelled of death. Copper and rot. Kaela noted the room was designed as a Faraday cage; no signals in or out. No cameras. A true dead zone.

Alistair Kaufman, the lion of Wall Street, lay on a massive four-poster bed. His skin was the color of old parchment. Dark blood stained the silk sheets.

Sterling was frantic. "BP is dropping! 60 over 40! Get the crash cart! Prep for intubation!"

Kaela stood in the doorway. She saw the black veins tracking up the old man's neck.

"Intubation will kill him," she said. Her voice cut through the panic like a scalpel. "His lungs are full of necrotic fluid. The pressure will burst the alveoli."

The room went silent. Sterling spun around.

"Who let her in?" she screamed. "Get out! Security!"

Two guards moved toward Kaela.

Kaela didn't back down. She looked past them, straight at Barron, who had been wheeled into the corner of the room.

She locked eyes with him. Do you want him dead?

Barron's face remained slack, but his right index finger tapped the armrest of his wheelchair. Twice.

The head of security, a man named Graves who had served Barron for ten years, saw the signal. He stepped in front of the other guards.

"Wait," Graves said. "Let her speak."

"Are you insane?" Sterling shrieked. "She's a hillbilly! She's high on meth for all we know!"

Kaela walked to the bed. She pulled back Alistair's eyelids. "Pinpoint pupils. Black gum line. This isn't heart failure. It's 'Black Mamba' neurotoxin cocktail."

She reached into her boot and pulled out a folding knife. The blade was silver, dull-looking, but razor sharp.

"She's got a weapon!" Sterling yelled. "Call the police!"

Kaela ignored her. She grabbed Alistair's foot. "I need to drain the pressure from the meridian points before the heart stops."

Sterling lunged at her.

CRASH.

A Ming vase shattered against the wall.

Everyone jumped.

Barron was thrashing in his chair, making guttural, animalistic noises. He swung his arms wildy, knocking over a table.

"Out!" he roared, the word slurred but intelligible. "Get... OUT!"

Graves moved instantly. "Mr. Kaufman is having an episode! Clear the room! Everyone out!"

He grabbed Sterling by the arm. "But the patient-"

"Out!" Graves shoved the doctor and the nurses into the hall. He looked at Kaela, then at Barron, and closed the heavy oak doors, sealing them inside.

The room fell silent, save for the beep of the monitor.

Kaela looked at Barron. He stopped thrashing. He sat up straight, wiped his mouth, and looked at her with terrifying intensity.

"Save him," Barron said. His voice was deep, clear, and commanded absolute obedience.

Kaela didn't blink. "Pass me a towel."

Barron grabbed a clean towel from the cart and threw it to her.

Kaela caught it one-handed. She didn't waste time asking questions about his miraculous recovery. They were co-conspirators now.

She knelt at the foot of the bed. She used the silver knife to make a small, precise incision on the sole of Alistair's foot, right at the kidney point.

A dark, viscous blood oozed out. It wasn't black, but a deep, unhealthy crimson that carried a faint, acrid chemical smell.

"Hold his leg," Kaela ordered.

Barron left the wheelchair. He walked-steady, powerful strides-to the bed and clamped his hands around his grandfather's calf.

Kaela reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a small glass jar. Inside, two translucent, gelatinous creatures swam in water.

Leeches.

Barron raised an eyebrow. "This is your plan? Medieval witchcraft?"

"It works," Kaela said, using tweezers to place a leech on the incision. "Unlike your Dr. Sterling, who treats the symptoms, these eat the poison."

The leech latched on. Its body began to swell, though its color remained largely unchanged.

"Why the act?" Kaela asked, her eyes focused on the wound. "You could run this empire in your sleep."

"To see the rats," Barron said, watching the color slowly return to his grandfather's face. "Someone in this house is dosing him. And me."

"Sterling?"

"She's a pawn. I need the king."

The monitor beeped faster. Stronger. Alistair took a deep, rattling breath. The dark lines on his neck began to fade.

"Toxin load is down 80%," Kaela said. She plucked the gorged leech off and dropped it back into the jar. "He needs herbal chelation to get the rest."

BANG. BANG. BANG.

"Open up! Police!"

Sterling's voice came through the wood. "She's murdering him! Break it down!"

Kaela wiped her hands on the towel. She looked at Barron. "Showtime."

Barron nodded. In a split second, the powerful CEO vanished. He slumped back into the wheelchair, head lolling to the side, eyes rolling back.

Kaela unlocked the door.

Three police officers burst in, guns drawn, with Sterling right behind them.

"Hands in the air!"

Sterling pointed at the blood on the floor. "See! She cut him! She killed him!"

An officer grabbed Kaela, spinning her around. He slapped cuffs on one wrist.

"You're under arrest for..."

"Sterling..."

The voice was weak, raspy, but undeniable.

The officer froze. Sterling froze.

On the bed, Alistair Kaufman opened his eyes. He blinked, focusing on the ceiling, then turned his head slowly.

"Shut... up," Alistair croaked.

Sterling gasped. "Mr. Kaufman? But... the monitor said..."

She looked at the screen. Vitals were stable. Better than they had been in months.

"Impossible," she whispered.

Kaela twisted her wrist, slipping out of the officer's grip before he could lock the second cuff.

"Attempted murder?" Kaela asked, rubbing her wrist. "Looks like a life-saving procedure to me."

Alistair looked at Kaela. His eyes were old, tired, but sharp. He saw the blood on her hands, the jar in her bag.

"You..." he wheezed. "Who are you?"

"The new asset," Kaela said coolly. "And don't forget to pay the bill."

From the wheelchair, hidden by the bulk of his body, Barron's hand hung limp. But his thumb gave a small, subtle twitch. A thumbs up.