The heavy Escalade rolled down the concrete ramp into the underground parking garage of the private clinic.

The front tires hit a thick yellow speed bump. The SUV bounced sharply.

Alya's weakened body swayed with the motion. She threw her right hand out to catch her balance, her palm slapping down hard on the leather center console.

Her fingers brushed against something hard and covered in soft fabric.

Alya looked down.

Sitting half-hidden under a manila folder with a classified seal, was a small, dark blue velvet ring box.

The air vanished from Alya's lungs.

The tabloid headlines she had read in London flashed behind her eyes like strobe lights. Archer Garcia to Marry Cecilia Decker. The Ultimate Political Alliance.

A sharp, stabbing pain pierced the center of her chest. It was a physical agony, identical to the phantom pain she felt the day she watched her father collapse on the floor of the safe house.

Alya yanked her hand back. Her fingertips were trembling so violently she had to curl them into a tight fist.

Archer noticed the sudden shift in her breathing. He followed her gaze down to the console.

He saw the velvet box.

Archer's entire body went rigid for a split second, a flash of something unreadable-panic? regret?-in his eyes before the mask of cold indifference slammed back into place. He didn't reach out to hide it, but the muscle in his jaw clenched. He left it sitting there, a silent, heavy weight between them.

He turned his head, his piercing gaze locking onto the side of Alya's face, waiting for her reaction.

Alya forced herself to look out the tinted window. She dug her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin broke. She used the physical sting to anchor her mind.

She would not break down. Not in front of the man who was marrying into the family that destroyed hers.

"Congratulations," Alya said. Her voice sounded like it was coming from a rusted tin can. "I read the news. A perfect political merger."

The words hung in the suffocating air of the cabin.

Archer's jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. The dark amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a volatile fury.

"Is that why you came back?" Archer asked, his voice a lethal whisper. "After ten years of hiding, did you really think you could return to this city and survive? With your body in this condition? You came back to D.C. to get yourself killed."

The word killed hit Alya like a physical blow to the stomach.

She whipped her head around, her eyes blazing with a desperate, reckless fire.

"My father was framed," Alya snarled, her voice shaking with rage. "And I am going to rip the floorboards out of this city until I prove it."

Archer leaned into her space. The scent of cedar and danger wrapped around her throat.

"The deep water in this town will crush your bones to dust, Alya," he warned.

Alya didn't back down. She met his stare, her chest heaving. "Then let me drown. It has nothing to do with you."

The metal security gate of the garage rolled up with a loud, grinding clatter. Harsh, fluorescent white lights flooded the dark cabin.

Alya squinted, turning her face away from the blinding glare. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the intense wave of dizziness washing over her brain.

The SUV jerked to a halt.

Marcus was out of the driver's seat in a flash, pulling open the rear door. The damp, cold air of the concrete garage rushed in.

Archer stepped out first. He stood on the concrete floor, looking down at her like a king observing a beggar.

He held out his large hand, the face of his Patek Philippe watch catching the harsh light.

"Get out," Archer ordered. "Or I will drag you out."

Alya gritted her teeth. She ignored his hand.

She gripped the door frame, her knuckles white, and forced her trembling legs to move. She stepped out of the high cabin, her heel hitting the concrete.

The moment her weight shifted, her knees completely gave out.

The world tilted sideways. Alya fell forward, the concrete floor rushing up to meet her face.

Before she could hit the ground, two massive arms wrapped around her waist. Archer caught her, pulling her limp, freezing body flush against his warm chest.

Alya felt herself being lifted off the ground. The world was a spinning blur of white lights and sterile walls.

Archer carried her through the back doors of the clinic and practically threw her onto the leather examination table in the private suite.

The door swung open. Dr. Callum Jenkins walked in, wearing a crisp white coat. He took one look at Archer's murderous expression and raised an eyebrow.

Callum snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He grabbed a gauze pad soaked in medical alcohol and pressed it to the cut on Alya's forehead.

Alya flinched, a sharp hiss escaping her lips.

Archer stood leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Do a full workup," Archer commanded, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "Check her heart. Run her blood."

Alya's eyes snapped open. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"No!" Alya pushed herself up on her elbows. "It's just a scratch. I don't need a blood test."

Archer ignored her completely. He looked at Callum and gave a sharp nod.

Callum pulled a silver stethoscope from his neck and stepped closer to the table.

Alya's mind raced. If he listened to her chest, he would hear the massive, irreparable damage to her heart valves.

Callum pressed the cold metal disc against her chest, right over her heart.

Two seconds passed. Callum's hand froze.

His brow furrowed deeply. He moved the stethoscope slightly to the left, listening closer. He heard the chaotic, struggling rhythm. The severe murmur.

Callum pulled the earpieces out and looked down at Alya, his eyes full of clinical suspicion.

Before Callum could speak, Alya looked him dead in the eye.

"Viral myocarditis," Alya lied, her voice steady and loud. "I contracted it during a reporting embed in Syria three years ago. It left a slight arrhythmia."

She threw out the medical jargon like a shield, daring the doctor to question a war correspondent.

Callum looked skeptical. He turned his head toward Archer. "I should hook her up to the EKG monitor to be safe. That rhythm is..."

Alya gripped the edge of the paper-lined table. Her palms were slick with cold sweat.

Suddenly, a heavy vibration buzzed in the room.

Archer reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted black phone. He glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened.

It was the secure line from the Pentagon.

Archer's gaze flickered from Alya's defiant face to Callum's concerned one. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, a silent message passing between the two men that he wasn't buying a word of her story. But the call couldn't wait. "I have to take this. Hook her up. Don't let her leave."

Archer turned on his heel and walked out into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

The moment the latch clicked, Alya sat up. The feigned weakness vanished from her eyes, replaced by a predatory sharpness.

She looked at Callum.

"If you tell him the truth about my heart," Alya said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "I will publish the import manifests showing how this clinic smuggles unapproved anesthetics from Switzerland."

Callum froze, his hand hovering over the EKG machine.

He was a veteran of the D.C. elite, used to handling scandals, but the absolute certainty in Alya's eyes terrified him. She wasn't bluffing.

Callum slowly raised both his hands in the air, stepping back from the machine.

Ten minutes later, the door opened. Archer walked back in, bringing a wave of cold air with him.

"Well?" Archer demanded.

Callum cleared his throat. He didn't look at Alya. "She has a mild concussion. Extreme fatigue. The arrhythmia is consistent with her old viral infection. I'll prescribe some standard painkillers."

Archer's eyes narrowed. He looked back and forth between the two of them, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.

But he had no proof.

"Put your coat on," Archer ordered Alya.

An hour later, the black Escalade idled outside a modest apartment building in the Northwest quadrant.

Alya shoved her door open. She didn't look back. She didn't say goodbye. She walked straight into the freezing rain.

Inside the lobby, Ginger Battle was pacing the floor, chewing on her thumbnail.

When Ginger saw Alya walk through the glass doors with a bandage on her head, she gasped and ran forward, grabbing Alya's arm.

Ginger looked through the glass. She saw the terrifying silhouette of the Escalade, and the dark, imposing profile of the man in the back seat.

The lobby doors slid open. Marcus walked in.

He didn't look at Alya. He walked straight up to Ginger and handed her a thick, matte black business card with a gold-embossed crest.

"If she exhibits any medical anomalies, you call this number," Marcus stated, his voice devoid of emotion.

He turned and walked back into the rain.

Ginger stood frozen, staring at the card that represented the apex of Washington's dark power, her mouth hanging open.

Alya walked into her small, dimly lit apartment and immediately threw the deadbolt.

She peeled off her wet trench coat, the fabric heavy with rain and mud, and let it drop to the floor. She collapsed onto the cheap fabric sofa, her body trembling from absolute exhaustion.

Ginger hurried into the kitchen and came back with a glass of lukewarm water. She handed it to Alya, her other hand clutching the black business card like it was a live grenade.

"Alya," Ginger said, her voice high and panicked. "Why the hell did Archer Garcia, the most dangerous power broker in this city, just drop you off?"

Alya glared at the gold crest on the card. "Put that in the shredder. Now."

Ginger pulled the card back against her chest. "Are you insane? Having Archer Garcia's private number in D.C. is a literal get-out-of-jail-free card."

"It's a death warrant," Alya snapped.

She reached into her purse and pulled out the unmarked pill bottle. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped two pills onto her lap before successfully grabbing them.

She threw the pills into her mouth and swallowed them with a gulp of water.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes and breathing through the residual pain. It took a full minute for the agonizing vice grip around her heart to begin to loosen, the drug slowly dulling the sharp edges of her agony. The color slowly returned to her pale lips.

Ginger frowned, pointing at the bottle. "What are those?"

"Prescription painkillers," Alya lied smoothly, not missing a beat. "For the concussion. My head is killing me."

Alya pushed herself off the sofa and walked over to the narrow window. She stared out at the distant, glowing dome of the Capitol building. Her eyes were filled with a deep, physiological disgust.

"I am not staying in this swamp, Ginger," Alya said, her voice hard. "I took this transfer to the BCF Washington bureau for one reason. I find the man who perjured himself at my father's hearing, I expose him, and I get on a plane back to London."

Ginger sighed, rubbing her temples. "You've been hiding in London for ten years, Al. Are you going to run forever?"

Alya turned around. Her eyes were dead, devoid of any warmth.

"I will stop running when my father's name is cleared," Alya stated.

Ginger saw the manic obsession in her friend's eyes and knew it was useless to argue. She quietly slipped the black business card into the hidden compartment of her phone case.

Alya walked over to the small dining table and opened her heavy, encrypted laptop.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in a thirty-six-character alphanumeric password. The screen went black, then booted into a secure dark web cloud server.

A complex web of financial wire transfers populated the screen. The red lines all pointed toward three massive military-industrial families.

Ginger walked up behind her, saw the names on the screen, and immediately rushed to the window to pull down the blinds.

Alya clicked on a PDF file. It was her onboarding schedule for the Broadcasting Corporation Foundation (BCF).

She highlighted a single name on the roster: Elana McKee, Senior Correspondent.

"Elana has the DOJ informant contacts," Alya said, her eyes tracking the screen. "I just need to get close enough to her to clone her drive."

Suddenly, Alya's personal cell phone vibrated on the table.

She picked it up. It was a text message from an unknown, encrypted number.

The message read: Stay away from the Decker family.

Alya stared at the screen. The arrogant, commanding tone was unmistakable. It was Archer. He was protecting his fiancée's family.

Alya's thumb slammed down on the screen. She blocked the number and immediately wiped her phone's cellular tower cache.

Across the city, sitting in the back of his Escalade, Archer stared at his phone screen.

The red text Message Failed to Deliver popped up.

Archer's lips curled into a dark, terrifying smile.

Marcus looked in the rearview mirror. "Sir, should I deploy a physical detail to watch her building?"

Archer shook his head slowly, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. "No. I already have eyes inside BCF. They were just too slow today."

Back in the apartment, Alya slammed her laptop shut. She rubbed her aching chest, trying to push the memory of Archer's intense gaze out of her mind.

The clock on the wall ticked past 2:00 AM. The war had officially begun.