SPY101: Played By My Enemy.

People spent holidays in warm places. Christmas in matching pajamas. Thanksgiving dinners are loud with laughter. New Year’s surrounded by family, music, and the comfort of familiar faces waiting at home. Most people got fireworks. I got missions. So while the rest of the world counted down to midnight with champagne glasses raised high, I, Rahab Davin, spent New Year’s Day chasing a black Aston Martin Valkyrie across the Third Mainland Bridge. The CIA had received an Interpol alert less than an hour ago, a flash drive containing encrypted cartel transactions had been stolen during transfer. Nobody knew who took it. Nobody knew who it was meant for. But judging from the four SUVs currently trying to run me off the bridge, somebody was desperate to get it first. “Agent Davin, do you copy?” My earpiece crackled through the sound of engines roaring against wet asphalt. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the Aston Martin weaving through traffic ahead of me like a bullet. “Copy.” “Your orders are simple. Recover the drive.” A sharp smile pulled at my lips as I pushed the accelerator harder. Simple. Right. My thumb tapped against the screen beside the steering wheel. Music blasted through the car instantly. Hit It. Bass vibrating through the doors. Loud. Reckless and perfect. The Aston Martin swerved between two struggling cars ahead, tires screeching against the rain-slick bridge. I pushed harder. Closer. Closer. The driver finally glanced into his side mirror. Male. Late thirties maybe. Dark glasses despite the rain. And smiling. Cocky bastard. He slowed just enough for our cars to align. Then he flicked me the bird. I laughed. Actually laughed. “Cute,” I muttered. His grin widened before he slammed his wheel into mine. Metal screamed as my car jerked violently toward the edge of the bridge. Horns exploded around us as vehicles swerved out of the way. A taxi spun too hard behind us and crashed straight into the barrier. Seconds later, Boom. Flames swallowed the front of it. “Road’s getting crowded,” I said into my earpiece. “Agent Davin, fall back—” “Not happening.” Another SUV pulled beside me. Passenger leaning halfway out the window with a gun aimed directly at my tires. Amateur. I jerked the wheel sharply left. Gunshots cracked through the air. The bullets missed by inches. The SUV lost balance trying to correct itself on the wet road. Its back tires slid first. Then the entire vehicle spun straight into the side of an oncoming cargo truck. The impact sounded like thunder. Sparks. Crushed metal. Screaming brakes. I didn’t look back. The Aston Martin was still ahead. Still running. “You’re starting to annoy me,” I murmured. A third vehicle came out of nowhere and rammed into my side hard enough to crack glass. My head snapped against the window. Warning lights flashed across the dashboard instantly. Control slipping. Damn. The car skidded toward the barrier at terrifying speed. I pulled my gun with one hand, aimed through the shattered passenger window, and fired twice. The bullets tore into the attacker’s front tire. Blowout. Their SUV swerved wildly. Mine did worse. “Brace for impact,” the voice in my earpiece shouted. Too late. I kicked the door open and threw myself out just before the car smashed into the barrier. Pain exploded through my shoulder as I hit the asphalt hard, rolling across the wet bridge. I groaned, rain soaking through my clothes instantly. For a second, all I heard was ringing. Then, Tires screeching away as the Aston Martin disappeared into the night. “Damn it,” I hissed, forcing myself up on one elbow. Pain shot through my side immediately. Definitely bruised. Maybe cracked. Not important. Red and blue lights flashed across the bridge as distant sirens grew louder. Around me, people stumbled out of their vehicles in panic, some yelling, others recording the chaos with their phones. Typical. My gaze stayed on the fading taillights of the Aston Martin until they disappeared completely into the rain. I leaned back against the cold barrier with a tired exhale. “Agent Davin?” my handler’s voice crackled through the earpiece again. “Status report.” I looked at the burning wreck a few feet away. Then at my destroyed car. “Could be better.” “Did you recover the drive?” Silence. A muscle ticked in my jaw. “Negative.” The line went quiet for two seconds. Never a good sign. “You’re ordered back to headquarters immediately.” I already hated the sound of that. Slowly, I pushed myself to my feet despite the protest from every bone in my body. Rain dripped from my hair into my eyes as I reached inside my jacket for a cigarette before remembering I quit six months ago. Unfortunate timing. A paramedic started toward me. I lifted a hand before he could speak. “Wrong agent,” I said, limping past him. Behind me, flames reflected against the wet bridge while somewhere out there, a flash drive full of encrypted cartel transactions was getting farther away by the second. By the time I got off the bridge, the rain had reduced to a light drizzle. My shoulder still hurt. My knees hurt. And somewhere between being slammed into a barrier and rolling across wet asphalt, I’d lost whatever patience I started the year with. A black SUV waited at the side of the road. No plates. Tinted windows. Government-issued boredom on four wheels. The back door opened before I reached it. “You look terrible,” the driver said. “Happy New Year to you too.” I slid into the backseat with a groan. The heater blasted warm air against my freezing hands as the SUV pulled into traffic. Nobody spoke for a while. I watched the city blur past the tinted windows, city lights reflecting against rainwater and restless streets. Somewhere out there was a man driving an Aston Martin with a flash drive important enough to turn a bridge into a war zone. Which meant this wasn’t simple theft. It was a delivery. “Interpol sent over additional intel,” the driver finally said. “And?” “The transactions on the drive trace back to multiple buyers across different countries.” I frowned slightly. “Weapons?” “Unknown.” “Human trafficking?” “Unknown.” That got my attention. Agencies hated saying unknown. It meant somebody powerful had buried the truth deep enough to scare professionals. The driver handed a tablet to me. One image filled the screen. The flash drive. Small. Black. Ordinary looking. Funny how the deadliest things usually were. “Whoever gets access to those files first,” he said carefully, “controls the market.” I stared at the screen for a second longer before locking it. “Then we find the car.”