Three weeks later, I left a late-night negotiation in heavy rain. Water ran across the streets and broke the skyscraper lights into streaks.
My driver guided the Lincoln toward my new penthouse. I was tired, and the deal in my bag was signed.
On a quiet side street a few blocks from home, a man stepped out between two parked cars and into our lane.
My driver swore and hit the brakes. The Lincoln slid across the wet pavement and stopped inches from him. He threw himself onto the hood anyway, then rolled onto the asphalt.
My driver was a former Secret Service agent named Marcus. His hand went to the door.
“Stay in the car, Ms. Hale. I’ll handle this.”
“Wait.”
The man rolled into the headlights. Julian’s face was streaked with rain and grime. Blood poured from a gash on his forehead.
