Chapter 2

Morning fog still clung to the cracked highway leading into Pine Creek. A sudden, violent shudder ripped through the chassis of the black Maybach. The engine gave a pathetic metallic grind and died.

Pierce slammed his fist against the dashboard. "Dammit! Zero cell service out here."

In the back seat, Graham pushed his door open and stepped out onto the gravel. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit jacket pulling tight across his back. His jaw was sharp, dark eyes scanning the empty landscape without a flicker of panic.

Pierce scrambled out, staring at the white smoke pouring from under the hood. "We are going to miss the briefing tonight. In this godforsaken wasteland."

Graham didn't look at him. He raised his right hand, thumb finding the heavy black ring on his pinky finger. He twisted it once.

"Fresh tire tracks heading two miles up the road," he said, voice low and steady. "There's a shop."

They started walking. Loose gravel crunched under their leather shoes. Dust coated the expensive leather immediately.

They rounded a sharp bend. A dilapidated corrugated iron structure came into view. Faded, aggressive graffiti covered the walls.

Pierce pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've got to be kidding me. You think some backwoods hick in that dump can fix a V12 engine?"

Graham ignored him and walked straight toward the half-open rolling metal door. The sharp clank of metal hitting metal echoed from inside.

They stepped into the dim, dusty interior. The air smelled of rust and old gasoline.

Graham's eyes adjusted to the shadows. He stopped.

Ten feet away, someone was lying flat on a mechanic's creeper, slid halfway under the chassis of a lifted truck. Grease-stained cargo pants. Long, straight legs bent at the knees.

The metallic clanking stopped.

With a swift, fluid motion, the creeper rolled out from under the truck. Allison sat up.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, streaks of grease smeared across one sharp cheekbone. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and completely empty of welcome.

Pierce froze. His mouth opened slightly.

Graham's gaze dropped to her right hand. She was casually gripping a heavy-duty wrench. His eyes narrowed. He could smell it on her—not just grease, but something sharper. Blood and adrenaline.

Pierce recovered and plastered on his signature playboy smile. He took a step forward. "Hey there. Is the boss around?"

Allison didn't blink. She tossed the heavy wrench onto a metal table. It landed with a loud crash.

"Get out," she said. One word. Flat and sharp.

Pierce's smile vanished. He choked on his next breath.

Graham stepped forward, smoothly placing himself in front of Pierce. His presence instantly dominated the cramped space.

"Our car broke down," Graham said. His voice was deep, carrying the weight of a man used to giving orders. "Name your price."

Allison finally shifted her gaze to Graham.

Their eyes locked. The air in the garage tightened.

She took in the perfect cut of his suit, then her eyes flicked to his left wrist. A limited-edition Patek Philippe. A walking ATM.

She picked up a filthy rag and slowly wiped the grease from her fingers. The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

"Five figures. Cash. Upfront."

Pierce let out an angry laugh. "Five figures? For a backwoods mechanic?" He reached into his jacket for his black card.

Graham raised a single hand. Pierce stopped dead.

Graham reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. He walked to the greasy metal table and slammed the cash down.

Allison stared at the money. Her heart rate didn't change. She swept the stack into her pocket without a word of thanks.

She snapped her fingers. Ricky jumped from the shadows in the corner.

"Take the rig. Go get their car."

Ricky scrambled out the door, fired up the rusted tow truck, and peeled out of the lot.

Silence fell over the garage.

Graham walked over to a half-assembled motorcycle sitting on a stand. His eyes traced the exposed exhaust pipes.

"The welding on this manifold," Graham said casually, not looking at her, "is professional-grade racing spec. Not something you learn in a small-town shop."

Allison's spine went rigid. The muscles in her arms tightened.

She moved fast, stepping directly between Graham and the bike. Her chest was inches from his arm.

"Don't touch my things," she warned, voice dropping to a whisper. "Or I'll break your fingers."

Graham looked down at her. She was glaring at him like a cornered leopard. He didn't feel insulted. Something dark and fascinated sparked in his chest.