Out Of Your League: The Lethal Ex-Wife

Director Alistair pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. His eyes roamed over Erica's body with a feverish, obsessive medical curiosity.

"Ms. Murphy," Alistair said, waving a new brain scan report in his hand. "Your cellular regeneration rate has shattered every known record in medical history. You cannot leave. You must return to the lab immediately for further testing."

The two massive security agents stepped forward. Their broad shoulders effectively sealed off the hospital exit.

Erica's eyes went dead.

The ORACLE System instantly mapped out three viable escape routes. It highlighted the weakest joints on the agents' bodies-knees, throats, groins. Her muscles coiled, ready to snap their bones.

But she forced herself to stand still. If she assaulted hospital staff and security, she would trigger a city-wide manhunt. Her revenge plan against Colten would be ruined.

She took a sharp, deep breath. She instantly relaxed her combat posture and contorted her face into a mask of unhinged panic.

She lunged forward, stopping an inch from Alistair's nose.

"It's the adrenaline!" Erica screamed, her voice tearing out of her throat in a raspy, hysterical shriek. "It's a miracle! God saved me from that car crash!"

She threw her arms up, making sure her voice echoed across the crowded lobby.

"You want to cut me open!" she yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the Director. "You want to lock up a traumatized car crash victim and slice me into pieces just so you can write a damn medical paper!"

The lobby went dead silent. Then, the whispers started.

Americans were hyper-sensitive to medical human rights violations. Several patients and family members in the waiting area pulled out their smartphones. Red recording lights blinked on, aimed right at Alistair.

Alistair's face drained of color. He turned a sickly shade of pale green. He was obsessed with science, but a viral video of him illegally detaining a patient would destroy his career.

He held his hands up, forcing a stiff, calming smile.

"Erica, please calm down," Alistair whispered, sweating under the glare of the phone cameras. "We will provide you with the best VIP suite. Millions in nutritional compensation. Just stay."

Erica sneered. She reached into her pocket. She pulled out the Swiss bank receipt for the twenty million dollars. She shoved the paper right into Alistair's face.

"I have more money than this entire pathetic hospital," Erica spat arrogantly. "I don't need your charity. Process my discharge papers. Now."

Crushed by the weight of the cameras and the undeniable proof of her wealth, Alistair gritted his teeth. He waved his hand. The security agents stepped aside.

Half an hour later, Erica walked out of the hospital. She was wearing a tight black tracksuit and a baseball cap she had bought off a nurse.

Down Fifth Avenue, the wail of ambulance sirens pierced the air, rushing toward the wreckage of Colten's Maybach.

Erica pulled the cap down over her eyes. She hailed a yellow cab. She gave the driver the address of Manhattan's most exclusive real estate agency on the Upper East Side.

She leaned back against the cracked leather seat. She closed her eyes. The ORACLE System connected to the dark web.

While the cab navigated traffic, Erica went on a shopping spree. She ordered three military-grade encrypted servers, a localized signal jammer, and several untraceable Glock 19 handguns.

The cab pulled up to the agency. Erica walked in, slapped the bank draft on the mahogany desk, and demanded a move-in ready, maximum-security penthouse in Tribeca with a private helipad.

The broker initially sneered at her cheap tracksuit. Then he saw the zeros on the bank draft. His attitude instantly shifted to sickeningly sweet submission.

By late afternoon, Erica was standing in her new fortress.

The Tribeca penthouse featured bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows and a private elevator. It was tactically perfect. She paid an extra million dollars in cash to bypass standard escrow, using a billionaire-tier expedited clearing channel. She threw another five hundred thousand at the dark web couriers for a guaranteed three-hour priority drop, having the broker's people move her military-grade deliveries into the living room just as the sun began to set.

The doorbell rang. A private security team hauled heavy black Pelican cases into the apartment.

Erica locked the heavy steel door behind them. She activated the penthouse's biometric security system and set up invisible infrared tripwires across the windows.

She popped the latches on the largest case. She pulled out the high-performance workstation and physically hardwired it into a port she rigged to interface with her neural system.

The massive monitors flickered to life.

Erica pulled up the dashcam video. Beside it, she opened the corporate structure file of the Fischer Group. She stared at Colten Fischer's name. She tapped her finger rhythmically against the desk.

Tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, the Fischer Group was holding its annual shareholder meeting.

It was time to build a coffin for her ex-husband.