SECONDS FROM IGNITION

“One,” Julian Thorne whispered. The metal of his Glock was ice-cold against Nora’s forehead, but his eyes were colder.

Rain lashed against them in sideways sheets. Over Julian’s tailored shoulder, Nora saw Marcus closing the distance. The henchman’s hand was still buried in his trench coat pocket. He wasn't running; he was strolling, relishing the scene. Why wouldn't he? To him, Julian was about to execute a crazy valet, and then Marcus would finish the job.

“Two,” Julian said, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Nora couldn’t say bomb. If she did, Marcus would press the button out of pure panic. Her lungs burned from the airbag dust. She needed Julian to understand without alerting the traitor ten feet behind him.

“Look at his right hand,” Nora choked out, her voice barely a rasp over the freezing rain.

Julian didn't blink. He didn't turn around. “Excuse me?”

“Your guy,” she breathed, staring directly into Julian’s desolate eyes, praying the billionaire had the street instincts everyone claimed he did. “His right pocket. He’s holding a trigger. The gas pedal is wired to a brick of C4. If I hadn’t reversed...”

Julian’s pupils dilated a fraction of a millimeter. It was the only physical reaction he gave, but in that microsecond, the freezing aura around him shifted from interrogation to sheer, lethal realization.

“Boss,” Marcus called out over the storm, his voice laced with fake concern. He was six feet away now. “Is the girl crazy? Want me to handle this?”

Julian didn't lower his gun from Nora’s face. He kept his eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, Marcus. She’s out of her mind. Tried to steal the car.”

“Shame,” Marcus said. The fabric of his pocket strained as his thumb shifted.

What happened next was so fast Nora’s brain struggled to process it. Julian didn't turn. He simply dropped his weight, pivoted on his expensive leather heel, and whipped his arm backward.

A single, suppressed phut cut through the rain.

Marcus screamed. His right shoulder exploded in a mist of crimson, his arm going completely limp. Before the henchman could even hit the wet asphalt, Julian was on him. The billionaire kicked Marcus’s right hand, dislodging a small, black plastic square with a red button. The detonator skittered across the concrete, stopping inches from Nora’s ruined sneakers.

Julian pressed his boot down hard on Marcus’s throat. “Who bought you, Marc?”

Marcus spat a mixture of blood and rainwater. “You’re dead, Thorne. The whole city is about to swallow you whole.”

Sirens began to wail in the distance. The crash had attracted attention. Valets and patrons were pouring out of L’Aura’s front doors, screaming at the sight of the smoking Aston Martin and the blood on the ground.

Julian cursed under his breath. He looked at Nora, who was shaking violently, clutching her soaked jacket. He reached into his coat, pulled out a heavy set of keys attached to a tarnished silver St. Christopher medal, and tossed them to her.

Nora caught them on pure reflex.

“Black Range Rover, Level Two of the garage,” Julian commanded, grabbing her arm and hauling her to her feet. “You know engines. You know explosives. And you’re the only person in Chicago I know for a fact isn’t trying to kill me tonight. You want to live? You’re driving.”

Nora stared at the silver medal dangling from the keys. Her breath hitched. It was identical to the one her older brother used to wear before he disappeared.