The rain in New York didn't fall; it hunted. It slapped against the windshield of the blacked-out SUV as we tore toward Pier 12. Beside me, Silas was a statue of lethal intent. He had traded his three-piece suit for tactical black—heavy leather and Kevlar that hugged his massive frame. He was checking a silver-plated handgun, but I knew the real weapon was the golden-eyed beast pacing behind his ribs.
"The warehouse is a front for a Seeker extraction point," Silas said, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made the leather seats beneath us tremble. "They don't just want your DNA anymore, Elena. They want the 'Anchor Source.' They think if they can hook you up to a machine, they can siphon the Alpha power and sell it to the highest bidder."
"They’re going to find out I’m not a battery," I
