From Trash To Treasure: Masked Heiress

The lead hitman, Pierce, signaled with two fingers. The three men fanned out. They moved with the precision of professionals.

Braylon leaned against the damp wall of the shed. His hand drifted to his waist, searching for his gun. His fingers brushed empty leather. He let out a silent, frustrated breath.

Ivy felt him move. She turned her head and glared at him. Her eyes were dark behind the rain-splattered lenses.

A beam of light swept across the broken window of the shed. It caught the tips of Ivy's wet hair.

She didn't panic. She scanned the floor. Debris, old gym mats, broken glass. She picked up a jagged shard of a mirror. It was about six inches long.

The hitman approached the window. He leaned in to look.

Ivy moved.

She didn't lunge. She exploded upward. The glass shard slashed across the man's wrist. It was a precise cut, deep enough to sever the tendons and the artery.

The man dropped his gun. He opened his mouth to scream, but Ivy kicked him in the solar plexus. He stumbled back, colliding with the man behind him.

Pierce spun around. He aimed his weapon at the shed door.

Ivy didn't go through the door. She grabbed Braylon by his belt and shoved him toward the back wall. The wood was rotten from years of neglect. They hit it together.

The wall splintered. They tumbled out into the muddy service lane behind the school.

Braylon groaned as his wound stretched. The pain was blinding.

Ivy didn't offer comfort. She grabbed his collar and hauled him up.

"Move," she hissed.

They ran. Ivy was fast, surprisingly strong for her frame. But they weren't fast enough.

Pierce and the remaining shooter rounded the corner. They blocked the exit to the main street.

Braylon leaned against a brick wall, sliding down slightly. He looked at Ivy.

"Leave," he wheezed. "Not your fight."

Ivy looked at him. Then she looked at the men blocking their path. She felt a surge of irritation.

"Shut up," she said. "You are my patient now."

Pierce raised his gun. The silencer looked like a black hole in the dim street light.

"No witnesses," Pierce said.

Ivy reached into her pocket. She didn't pull out a weapon. She pulled out a coin. It was black and gold, heavy in her palm.

Pierce squeezed the trigger.

Ivy threw herself to the side, dragging Braylon with her. The bullet chipped the brick inches from her head. A fragment of stone cut her cheek.

She sat up. Her eyes were terrifyingly calm. She tossed the coin.

It clattered on the wet pavement and rolled, coming to a stop at Pierce's feet.

Pierce looked down. The streetlamp reflected off the metal. He saw the twin serpents entwined around a dagger.

The Serpent's Eye.

Pierce froze. His finger hovered over the trigger. Sweat broke out on his forehead, mixing with the rain.

Every mercenary in the city knew that symbol. It belonged to Deondre Pittman. It meant the bearer was under the personal protection of the Syndicate's head.

Pierce lowered the gun. He looked at the girl. She was soaked, muddy, and bleeding, but she looked at him with bored arrogance.

She pointed a finger toward the end of the alley.

Pierce swallowed. He couldn't risk it. If she really was connected to Pittman, killing her would mean a slow, agonizing death for him and everyone he knew.

He signaled his men. They backed away, disappearing into the darkness as quickly as they had come.

Braylon stared at Ivy. He was losing consciousness, the adrenaline fading.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

Ivy didn't answer. She dragged him toward her beat-up Ford Fiesta parked at the curb. She opened the back door and shoved him inside like a bag of laundry.