SHE TRIED TO KILL MY TWO-YEAR-OLD FOR AN EMPIRE—NOW I OWN EVERYTHING SHE LOVES

Claire didn't hesitate. Survival was a muscle she had honed in the trenches of psychiatric wards and Margaret's torture chambers.

She lunged backward away from the table, pressing her spine flat against the cold concrete wall beside the heavy iron doorway. Through the gloom, the red emergency exit signs hummed to life, casting an eerie, blood-tinted wash over the narrow corridor outside.

On the floor of the hallway lay two correctional officers, their throats torn open in wide, grinning gashes. Standing over them was a towering figure draped in a tailored charcoal trench coat, wearing a tactical mask made of polished white bone that mimicked a human skull.

In his right hand, the intruder held a serrated titanium combat machete, dripping thick ribbons of black-red blood onto the linoleum. In his left hand, he carried a silenced MP5 submachine gun.

"Margaret Vale," a deep, synthesized voice purred through the mask’s voice filter, echoing through the empty corridor. "Breach of contract carries a mandatory liquidation clause."

"No! Please! Lucian, tell them I didn't talk! I didn't tell her anything!" Margaret screamed, her voice cracking into high-pitched hysteria as she dragged her chained feet against the floor, trying futilely to pull her chair backward into the darkest corner of the cell.

The bone-masked assassin didn't even look at Margaret. He stepped through the threshold, raising the submachine gun toward the center of the room.

Claire struck.

She didn't run. She didn't scream. With explosive speed, Claire drove her steel-toed boot into the side of the assassin’s knee with all her body weight. The joint buckled with a sharp crack, throwing his aim off as three suppressed rounds tore into the concrete wall behind Margaret, sending plumes of plaster spraying across the room.

Before the assassin could recover, Claire lunged forward, driving her combat knife up under his armpit where body armor was naturally vulnerable.

The blade struck Kevlar plating, sliding sideways with a harsh screech, but the force of the blow knocked the submachine gun from his grip, sending it skittering across the bloody floor.

The assassin snarled, spinning with monstrous strength. His backhand struck Claire across the cheekbone like an iron bar, sending her crashing into the heavy steel table. Stars exploded across her vision, the metallic taste of copper filling her mouth as her lip split open.

The assassin stepped forward, raising the heavy serrated machete above his head to cleave Claire’s skull in two.

*CLICK.*

A deafening blast echoed through the enclosed concrete room.

A high-caliber shotgun blast struck the assassin squarely in the chest, the kinetic force lifting his two-hundred-pound frame off his feet and slamming him into the steel bars of the cell door.

Frank stood in the doorway, smoke curling from the barrel of a tactical Benelli M4, his face set in grim fury. Behind him, two facility guards with drawn pistols rushed the corridor.

"Claire! Move!" Frank roared, pumping another shell into the chamber.

Claire scrambled to her feet, wiping the blood from her chin. But when Frank stepped forward to secure the masked killer, the assassin twisted violently, throwing a flash-bang canister onto the wet floor.

*BANG!*

A blinding sphere of white light and a concussive shockwave ripped through the room, deafening Claire and sending the guards reeling backward, hands clutching their ears. By the time the smoke cleared three seconds later, the cellblock’s secondary fire door was open, swinging on busted hinges.

The assassin was gone, leaving behind only a trail of dark, arterial blood leading out toward the service docks.

Claire coughed through the acrid smoke, blinking away the white spots in her eyes. She looked toward the center of the cell.

Margaret was still sitting in her chair.

Her head was thrown back, her mouth hanging open in a silent scream. A six-inch titanium hunting knife was buried to the hilt directly through her throat, pinning her neck to the high-backed iron chair.

Scrawled in blood across her orange jumpsuit was a set of GPS coordinates and a single word: