Return Of The Lethal Unwanted Heiress

Allison pushed open the door to the bedroom. The air was thick with dust, smelling of mildew and neglect. She threw her duffel bag onto the bare mattress and didn’t bother turning on the flickering overhead light. She dropped to one knee and pulled the tactical knife from her boot. With three quick, brutal twists, she unscrewed the metal grate of the air vent near the floor. She ran her fingers along the inside of the duct, feeling for the cold metal of a listening device. Clean. She stood up and yanked the heavy blackout curtains shut. The room plunged into absolute darkness. Allison unzipped the bottom compartment of her canvas bag and pulled out a thick, battered black laptop. The casing was scratched and dented, looking like it belonged in a junkyard. She set it on the desk and hit the power button. No Windows logo. No standard boot screen. The screen flashed black, then a single, blood-red command prompt appeared. Allison’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then they descended, typing furiously, punching in a 64-character dynamic encryption key. A soft electronic chime sounded. The screen glowed a harsh, icy blue, illuminating her pale face and dead eyes. She had bypassed the NSA’s outer firewall. She was in the deep web. A black chat box popped up instantly. The caller ID read: SIREN. Allison pulled a tiny earpiece from her pocket and shoved it into her ear. She tapped the microphone key. “Commander X. You’re online.” Siren’s voice crackled through the earpiece, thick with relief and absolute loyalty. Allison leaned back in the creaky wooden chair and rubbed her thumb over the black wristband on her left arm. “Report.” “We have a breach attempt,” Siren said quickly. “Someone is aggressively probing the background of the Pine Creek garage. High-level encryption. Military grade.” Allison’s mind flashed to Graham’s dark, calculating eyes. A cold sneer touched her lips. “Initiate Ghost Protocol,” she ordered, her voice devoid of human emotion. “Wipe the servers clean. And drop a reverse-tracking Trojan into their mainframe. Let’s see how they like being hunted.” “Copy that,” Siren said. “Commander... I have an update on the 319 Project.” Allison’s fingers stopped moving. Her breath caught. “We intercepted fragments of a destroyed lab log from the Eastern European black market,” Siren continued, her voice dropping lower. “It references a successful containment. Something called the ‘Live Serum’.” The words hit Allison like a bullet to the chest. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The black wristband on her arm began to flash a frantic, bright red. A wave of freezing cold ripped through her, making her teeth chatter. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. The sharp taste of copper flooded her mouth. The physical pain grounded her, keeping her from spiraling. She knew what the Live Serum was. It was her. “Get that log,” Allison gasped out, fighting the tremor in her voice. “Burn the market down if you have to. Do not let Aethelgard get their hands on it.” “Commander, your vitals are spiking on my end,” Siren warned anxiously. “You need to disconnect.” “Just do it!” Allison snapped. She slammed her hand down on the keyboard, severing the connection. The screen went black. Allison slumped forward, resting her forehead against the cold metal of the laptop. Sweat beaded on her skin. She reached into her jacket with trembling fingers and pulled out the blue vial Alistair had given her. She gripped it so hard her knuckles ached, using the cold glass to anchor herself. Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway. Allison’s eyes snapped open. The vulnerability vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal stillness of a predator. She shoved the laptop into a hidden compartment under the floorboards in less than two seconds. She stood perfectly still in the dark. The brass doorknob slowly, silently turned. It hit the lock and stopped. A frustrated huff of breath came from the other side of the wood. Allison recognized that pathetic little sigh. Gwyneth. Allison didn’t make a sound. She just stared at the door, a dark, violent promise settling in her chest. Tomorrow was going to be fun.