"GET OUT! YOU'RE NOTHING WITHOUT US!"" my father screamed, throwing my backpack onto the porch. I was only seventeen.

The sterile hum of the prison visitor room felt suddenly deafening.

I stared at my father through the thick bulletproof glass, my blood turning to ice.

“A hit?” I repeated, the word tasting metallic and surreal in my mouth. “Vincent put a hit out on me?”

“Yes,” Richard pleaded, his trembling hands pressing against the glass. “I heard the guards talking. Some of them are on the Moretti payroll. Sarah, you have to disappear. You have to leave the city.”

I looked at the pathetic, broken man in front of me. Even now, he was trying to control me through fear.

“I’m not running, Dad,” I said, my voice steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “I ran from you when I was seventeen. I’m done running from toxic men.”

I slammed the heavy black receiver down on the cradle, cutting off his frantic protests, and walked out of the visitor room without looking back.

As soon as I cleared the prison gates, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Marcus Thorne.

“Marcus, it’s Sarah,” I said the moment he answered. “My father just told me Vincent put a contract out on my life.”

There was a long, chilling pause on the other end of the line.

“I know,” Marcus said grimly. “I just got the intel from a wiretap ten minutes ago. Sarah, where are you right now?”

“I’m in my car, leaving the federal penitentiary,” I said, pulling onto the highway as a heavy, gray rain began to fall over the city.

“Do not go home,” Marcus ordered, his voice tense. “Do not go to your office. The assassin Vincent hired is a professional ghost. We call him ‘The Mechanic.’ He specializes in making hits look like tragic accidents.”

My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles turned white. “Where is Eleanor?”

“I already dispatched a SWAT unit to her house,” Marcus assured me. “She’s safe. They’re moving her to a secure safehouse. I need you to drive directly to the FBI field office downtown. Use the underground parking garage. I’ll meet you at the security gate.”

“Understood,” I said, accelerating as the rain began to lash violently against my windshield.

The drive downtown was a nerve-wracking blur. Every car that merged behind me looked suspicious. Every red light felt like a trap. The sky grew darker, the storm intensifying, making visibility incredibly poor.

I took the exit for the downtown financial district, my eyes darting to the rearview mirror.

A heavy, dark gray tow truck had been two cars behind me for the last three miles.

I took a sharp right turn onto 4th Avenue.

The tow truck turned right, too.

Panic spiked in my chest. He specializes in making hits look like tragic accidents.

I floored the accelerator, my sedan fishtailing slightly on the slick pavement. I wove through the sluggish downtown traffic, running a yellow light and sharply pulling into the narrow, winding entrance ramp of the FBI underground parking garage.

I swiped my emergency access card at the gate. The heavy metal arm lifted slowly.

I checked my mirror. The tow truck hadn't followed me into the garage.

I let out a ragged breath, pulling into a parking space near the elevator banks.

I stepped out of the car, the echoing silence of the concrete garage feeling oppressive.

“Marcus?” I called out, my voice bouncing off the concrete walls.

“Right here, Sarah.”

Marcus stepped out from behind a concrete pillar. He was wearing his FBI windbreaker, his badge visible, holding a file folder.

I rushed toward him, my knees weak with relief. “Thank God. Were you able to secure Eleanor? Is Tyler safe?”

“They’re both secure,” Marcus said, offering a tight, reassuring smile. “You’re safe now, Sarah. Come on, let’s get you upstairs to the debriefing room.”

He turned and swiped his badge at the elevator. The doors slid open.

I took a step toward the elevator, but my foot kicked something on the concrete floor.

I looked down.

It was a heavy steel lug nut.

I frowned, glancing back toward where Marcus had been standing behind the pillar. Tucked slightly behind the concrete column was a heavy, dark canvas tool bag.

The Mechanic.

My blood ran completely cold.

I looked at Marcus. He was holding the elevator door open, waiting for me.

But as the fluorescent light of the elevator caught his face, I saw a subtle, dark grease smudge on the collar of his pristine white shirt.

“Marcus,” I said slowly, stopping a few feet away from the elevator. “Why did you tell me to come to the underground garage instead of the main lobby?”

Marcus’s smile didn't reach his eyes. “Security protocols, Sarah. The lobby is too exposed.”

“But the garage cameras are down for maintenance today,” I said, recalling a memo my firm had received about the building’s infrastructure upgrades.

Marcus let the elevator door slide shut. The heavy metal thud echoed in the empty garage.

He dropped the file folder. He wasn't reaching for his gun. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, high-voltage stun gun.

“Vincent pays a lot better than the federal government, Sarah,” Marcus said softly, his voice devoid of the fatherly warmth I had trusted for years.

“You’re the Mechanic,” I breathed, stepping backward in sheer horror. “You’re the assassin.”

“I’m a pragmatist,” Marcus corrected, stepping slowly toward me. “Vincent offered me two million dollars to ensure you had a fatal car crash in this garage. No witnesses. No cameras. Just a tragic brake failure.”

He lunged forward, the stun gun crackling with blue electricity.

I didn't freeze. The street-smart instincts of a seventeen-year-old girl who had survived being thrown out into the cold took over.

I threw my heavy leather purse directly at his face.

Marcus swatted it away, but it bought me the half-second I needed. I spun around and sprinted deeper into the parking garage, dodging between parked cars.

“You can't outrun me, Sarah!” Marcus’s voice echoed off the concrete.

I ducked behind a massive concrete pillar, my lungs burning, desperately searching for a weapon. I had nothing.

I heard his footsteps approaching, slow and methodical.

“It’s nothing personal, Sarah,” Marcus called out, his voice terrifyingly calm. “But you ruined the Moretti empire. You ruined my retirement.”

He stepped around the pillar, raising the stun gun.

Suddenly, the roar of a high-powered engine shattered the silence of the garage.

A sleek, dark sedan tore around the corner, its headlights blinding Marcus.

Before Marcus could turn, the car slammed on its brakes, fishtailing violently. The heavy rear bumper struck Marcus in the legs, sending him crashing hard onto the concrete floor. The stun gun skittered away into the dark.

The car doors flew open.

Two armed FBI agents jumped out, their weapons drawn, aiming directly at Marcus.

“Don't move, Thorne!” one of the agents yelled.