The Lethal Heiress: Too Late For Regret

The Porsche's tires locked up. The car skidded to a halt on the cracked asphalt of an abandoned shipping yard in South Boston. The smell of old motor oil and rotting seaweed filled the air. Ashlee stepped out of the car. The wind whipped her hair across her face. She kept her right hand close to the pocket of her leather jacket, her fingers resting near the grip of her Glock. She walked through the maze of rusted shipping containers. She stopped in front of a faded red one. She raised her fist and knocked on the corrugated metal. Two fast knocks, a pause, then one heavy strike. A heavy deadbolt clacked loudly from the inside. The metal door swung open. Zane Carrick stood in the doorway. He wore a dark hoodie. He stepped back to let her in. The inside of the container was a stark contrast to the outside. It was a state-of-the-art mobile command center. Server racks hummed loudly against the walls. Four large monitors glowed with lines of code. Ashlee walked in. She pulled up a metal folding chair and sat down. "Give me the DNA results," Ashlee demanded. Zane picked up an encrypted tablet. He handed it to her. The screen displayed a complex double-helix graphic. "I ran the blood sample from the clinic through the Grey Iron Delta global mercenary database," Zane said. His face was grim. "Zero matches." Ashlee frowned. She swiped her finger across the screen. She accessed the Interpol red notice database and the FBI's biometric servers. The data scrolled furiously. Ten seconds later, a large red box appeared on the screen: NO MATCH. Ashlee stared at the red letters. Her jaw tightened. She stood up. She walked over to a white dry-erase board mounted on the wall. She grabbed a black marker and drew a large question mark in the center. "He breached Area 21," Ashlee said, her voice cold and analytical. "He bypassed our thermal grids. He took a hit from a .50 caliber hollow-point and still managed to cross the ocean. Someone with that level of skill does not exist in a vacuum. He should be in the databases." "Unless," Zane said slowly, "his identity was completely scrubbed by a state-level intelligence apparatus. A total digital wipe." Ashlee turned around. "A Ghost Agent." Zane nodded. "If he's a Ghost, we won't find him by looking for his name or his face. He doesn't exist." Ashlee felt a rush of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. A tight, dangerous smile touched the corners of her mouth. She loved hunting ghosts. "Change the parameters," Ashlee ordered. She tossed the marker onto the desk. "Stop looking for the man. Look for the cage." Zane sat down at his keyboard. "What do you mean?" "He's severely injured. He needs a secure location to recover. He won't use a hotel. He'll use a safe house," Ashlee said. "Hack the Department of Defense's external property management systems. Look for shell company real estate in the Boston area." Zane's fingers flew across the keyboard. Lines of code reflected in his glasses. A map of Boston appeared on the main monitor. Dozens of red dots popped up across the city. "I have forty-two properties flagged as potential government safe houses," Zane said. Ashlee walked up to the monitor. She analyzed the map. "He took a massive hit to the back," Ashlee said. "His mobility is compromised. Eliminate any property that requires climbing more than one flight of stairs." Zane typed. Fifteen dots vanished. "He needs to move unseen. Eliminate any property without an attached, enclosed garage," Ashlee commanded. Zane typed again. Twelve more dots disappeared. "He bought surgical supplies, but if the wound gets infected, he needs emergency trauma care fast. Eliminate any property further than a ten-minute drive from a major hospital." Zane hit the enter key. The map zoomed in. Only three red dots remained. Ashlee pulled out her phone. She snapped a picture of the three addresses. "He is in one of these three houses," Ashlee said. Her voice was absolute. Zane looked up at her. He looked worried. "Mamba, if he is a DIA Ghost Agent, hitting his safe house on US soil is an act of war. You will trigger a diplomatic nightmare." Ashlee looked down at Zane. Her eyes were completely dead. "In my world, Zane, there is no diplomacy. There is only alive, and there is dead." Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a text message from Averi. Dad wants you home by 7 PM. We are having a special welcome home dinner for you! Can't wait to celebrate as a family! Ashlee stared at the pink heart emoji. Her stomach churned with disgust. She knew exactly what this was. It was a trap. She typed two letters: OK. She put the phone back in her pocket. "I have to go," Ashlee said. "I need to clean up some trash in my backyard before I go hunting. Is the secondary location ready?" "Yes," Zane said, pulling up another encrypted file. "Your cover dorm at Boston Federal University is fully prepped and secure. We bypassed the standard housing lottery. No cameras in the blind spots, and the reinforced locks are installed." Ashlee nodded. She walked out of the container. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind her. She got back into the Porsche. The engine roared, drowning out the sound of the ocean waves. She drove back toward the Maddox estate.