The train rocked violently as it hurtled through the tunnel. Elena’s knuckles were white on the overhead rail. Rainwater dripped from her hair, mixing with blood from the gash on her forehead. Four rounds. That was all she had left in the magazine, and one spare mag tucked against her lower back—fifteen more if she made it that far.
The voice on the phone still echoed in her skull.
Twenty minutes.
The drive reaches him in twenty minutes.
Come alone, or everyone you ever cared about dies next.
She knew exactly who “him” was. Viktor Kane. The man who’d burned her old life to the ground. The man who’d turned her into this—ghost, hunter, weapon.
The train screeched into the next station. Doors hissed open. She stepped out into the fluorescent glare of Central Plaza station, one of the bu
