The Lethal Heiress: Too Late For Regret

Ashlee walked into the main briefing room. The air conditioning blasted cold air from the vents.

She pulled off her wet tactical gloves. She threw them onto the center of the holographic projection table. The heavy, wet fabric hit the glass surface with a loud smack.

Zane Carrick stood on the other side of the table. He was the chief intelligence officer. He wore a gray sweater. He looked exhausted.

He tapped a few keys on his console. The holographic table lit up.

Grainy security footage appeared in the air. It was full of static and snow.

"This is all we recovered from the vault cameras," Zane said. He pointed at the screen. "The intruder used a highly specific frequency jammer. It completely fried our local feeds."

Ashlee stared at the static. "Who uses that frequency?"

"The Defense Intelligence Agency," Zane said. "It's a proprietary DIA counter-surveillance band. It's not available on the black market."

Ashlee's eyes narrowed. She looked at the still image of the shadow falling off the cliff. A cold, predatory focus settled in her stomach.

Zane typed another command. The screen changed. A digital folder appeared. A red warning label flashed across the front: RESTRICTED ACCESS.

"File 531," Zane said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know what this means, Ashlee. The 531 explosion involves high-level government officials across three countries. If this leaks, the fallout will be catastrophic."

Ashlee let out a short, harsh laugh. "I know exactly what the fallout looks like, Zane. I was there."

She turned away from the table. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The storm outside was finally slowing down. The rain tapped lightly against the glass.

Her chest tightened. The physical pressure squeezed her lungs.

She remembered the rain in Boston four years ago. She remembered the cold hands grabbing her arms. She remembered being shoved into the back of a black SUV. That night had ripped her life apart. It had turned her into the weapon standing in this room.

She pushed the memory down. She turned back to Zane.

"Initiate a global kill order," Ashlee said. Her voice carried no emotion. "Level one."

Zane shook his head. He pulled up a satellite map of the Atlantic coast.

"I tracked the thermal signature in the water after you shot him," Zane said. "A submarine picked him up. No transponder. Stealth coating. It vanished off the grid ten minutes later."

"Where was it heading?" Ashlee asked.

Zane traced a line on the map. "The trajectory points straight to the East Coast of the United States. Specifically, the waters off Massachusetts."

Ashlee walked back to the table. She placed her index finger hard on the map. She pressed down on the city of Boston.

"I am going to Boston," Ashlee said. "I will retrieve the file. I will kill the ghost who took it."

Zane frowned. "You can't just walk into the US. If you enter as Black Mamba, Homeland Security will flag you before your plane lands. The DIA will be waiting for you."

Ashlee's lips curved into a cold smile. "I don't need to enter as Black Mamba. I have a perfectly legal civilian identity."

"You haven't used that name in four years," Zane said.

"Pull up the Maddox family file," Ashlee ordered.

Zane sighed. He typed on his keyboard. A picture of Finley Maddox appeared on the screen. He wore a tailored suit and a fake smile. He was a prominent Boston billionaire.

"It's time I paid my biological parents a visit," Ashlee said. Her voice was like crushed ice.

"They've been trying to contact you for weeks," Zane noted.

"I know," Ashlee said.

"I'll prepare your cover," Zane said. He started typing rapidly. "I'll create a flawless high school transcript. Ivy League standard. It will explain your absence and justify your return."

Ashlee nodded. She walked out of the briefing room.

She went to her private quarters. She stripped off the wet tactical vest and the heavy boots. The smell of rain and sweat washed down the drain in a three-minute cold shower.

She walked into her closet. She bypassed the tactical gear.

She pulled out a black silk shirt. It was expensive. It felt soft and fragile against her skin. She put on a pair of dark designer jeans.

She sat on the edge of her bed. She picked up a pair of black Chelsea boots. She reached into her drawer and pulled out a custom-made ceramic folding knife. The blade was matte black. It would not trigger airport metal detectors.

She slid the knife into a hidden compartment in the heel of the right boot. She put the boots on.

She grabbed a black Hermes Birkin bag from the top shelf. It looked like a standard luxury item. Inside, the lining was woven with military-grade anti-surveillance mesh. It held a frequency scanner, an encrypted phone, and three fake passports.

She walked out to the secret runway behind the base.

A Gulfstream G650 waited on the tarmac. It had no tail number. The engines whined loudly in the damp air.

Ashlee climbed the stairs. She stepped into the luxurious cabin. The smell of rich leather filled the space.

She sat down in the wide leather seat. She reached for the crystal decanter on the side table. She poured two fingers of bourbon into a glass. She drank it straight. The alcohol burned a hot path down her throat.

The plane accelerated and lifted off the ground. The force pushed her back into the seat.

She pulled a tablet from her bag. She opened the recent financial reports for the Maddox Corporation.

She scrolled through the data. Red numbers filled the screen. The company's stock was plummeting. They were bleeding cash.

Ashlee stared at the numbers. Her jaw tightened.

She understood instantly. Her parents didn't want her back because they missed her. They wanted her back because she was turning eighteen. They wanted the massive trust fund her grandfather had left exclusively in her name.

She tossed the tablet onto the empty seat next to her.

She closed her eyes. She forced her breathing into a slow, rhythmic pattern. She needed tactical sleep.

Three hours later, the plane touched down smoothly at Logan International Airport in Boston.

Ashlee opened her eyes. She reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of dark Tom Ford sunglasses. She slid them onto her face. They hid the cold, dead look in her eyes.

She stood up, grabbed her bag, and walked down the stairs.

The Boston air was crisp. She stepped onto the tarmac. She was ready to face the liars who called themselves her family.