The Heiress's Lethal Return

Absolute Zero

The EMP pulse tore through the shipping yard like a silent scythe. The amber overhead lamps died instantly, plunging the entire coastline into thick, oppressive darkness. The digital lock systems on the freight containers clicked dead, and the rain grew louder as the ambient hum of electrical transformers vanished from the docks.

​Rhea didn't wait for her vision to adjust.

​She drove her weight forward into the space where Silas Vance had been standing a second prior. Her left shoulder slammed into his chest plate just as he raised his sidearm. The force of the impact knocked him backward into the side of a steel container, the heavy metal ringing out like a muted bell.

​Silas reacted without sound. He dropped his useless electronic detonator and swung a heavy, gloved right hook toward Rhea’s temple.

​She ducked under the swing, the air rushing past her hair, and drove a sharp elbow into his exposed ribs. Silas grunted—a short, clipped burst of breath—and locked his left forearm around her neck, attempting to control her posture and bring her down to the wet gravel.

​Rhea reached up, seized his wrist with both hands, and twisted her hips sharply to break the hold. She slipped free, creating three feet of clearance, and reached for her leg holster.

​"He's moving right!" Madam Vane's voice crackled faintly through the earpiece. The static from the EMP had degraded the signal, but the warning came through clearly enough.

​Silas didn't try to draw a backup firearm. He pulled a eight-inch tactical blade from his chest rig, the darkened steel showing no reflection in the rain. He stepped in with two quick, linear thrusts aimed directly at her midsection.

​Rhea sidestepped the first strike, the blade tearing a clean line through the outer shell of her jacket. On the second thrust, she brought her forearm down hard against his wrist, deflecting the point into the wooden floor of a nearby loading pallet. Before he could reset his stance, she drove her boot into the side of his knee.

​The joint gave way with a sharp crack. Silas went down on one knee, but his left hand shot out like a trap, grabbing Rhea by the collar of her suit and hauling her down toward the mud with him.

​"You're fighting for a ghost, Rhea," Silas rasped, his cold gray eyes finally showing a flicker of strain as he held her at close range. "Arthur Sacramento built this network on blood. You think clearing Julian’s books cleans your hands?"

​Rhea didn't answer with words. She slammed her forehead forward directly into the bridge of his nose.

​Bone cracked. Silas’s grip loosened just enough for Rhea to wrench herself clear. She rolled backward onto her feet, wiping a mixture of rain and blood from her cheek.

​Behind them, near the junction box, the two syndicate guards who had been disoriented by the EMP were beginning to move. One of them cleared his sidearm harness and racked the slide manually, bypassing the fried electronic safety.

​THWIP. THWIP.

​Two suppressed rounds cracked through the rain from the high crane above. Both guards dropped to the gravel before they could raise their weapons.

​"Perimeter clear," Madam Vane reported over the static-laced comms. "Finish it, Rhea. We have four minutes before municipal backup arrives on secondary generators."

​Rhea turned back to Silas. He was standing again, leaning heavily on his uninjured leg, his hand pressed against his bleeding nose. The cold, calculated composure he had maintained in the penthouse was gone, replaced by the grim realization of a contract spiraling out of control.

​He looked at the two fallen guards, then back at Rhea, who stood five feet away with her sidearm trained squarely on the center of his chest.

​"The Obsidian Sovereign won't stop because one contract fails," Silas said softly, spitting blood onto the wet concrete. "There are five more like me in Geneva. Ten more behind them. You can't outrun an entire system."

​"I'm not running from it," Rhea said, her tone level and unhurried. "I'm pulling it apart."

​She stepped forward and drove the butt of her pistol hard against the side of his jaw. Silas dropped sideways onto the damp gravel, unconscious before he hit the ground.

​From the dark alleyway between the container stacks, a black van pulled up silently, its mechanical doors sliding open. Lyra hopped out from the front passenger seat, holding a zip-tie restraint kit and a portable hard-drive encoder.

​"Is the junction box secure?" Lyra asked, her eyes wide as she took in the scene.

​"The charge was electronic," Rhea replied, lowering her weapon. "The EMP fried the receiver circuit. It won't detonate."

​Lyra knelt beside Silas, securing his wrists and ankles with heavy-duty industrial ties before searching his tactical vest. She pulled out a thick, leather-bound notebook and a dark satellite transponder.

​"He has hard-copy routing codes in here," Lyra said, holding up the notebook. "Physical addresses for the Sovereign's regional banking nodes in Zurich, London, and Singapore."

​Rhea looked down at the unconscious assassin, then out toward the open water of the harbor where the city's skyline was slowly beginning to flicker back to life as secondary generators kicked in.

​"Load him into the back," Rhea instructed. "We don't leave him for the local authorities to question. Madam Vane wants him in a secure room before sunrise."

​"And what about the notebook?" Lyra asked, sliding the van's side door shut behind Silas.

​Rhea took the leather ledger, running her gloved fingers over the worn cover.

​"We stop reacting to their strikes," Rhea said, stepping into the passenger side of the vehicle as the engine hummed to life. "Tomorrow, we take the fight to Zurich."