THE SOUND OF SHATTERING GLASS

I woke up to the smell of burning rubber and blood.

My head throbbed with a vicious, relentless pulse. I blinked against the darkness, trying to focus. The SUV was crushed against the concrete barrier, the windshield shattered into a million glittering spiderwebs.

"Harper?" I croaked, coughing on the thick, white smoke leaking from the deployed airbags.

The driver's seat was empty. The door was ripped open, hanging by a single hinge.

Panic surged through my veins like ice water. I twisted around to look in the backseat. "Martin!"

Martin was slumped against the window, a deep gash across his forehead, but he was breathing. The silver pocket watch was still clutched in his hand.

I kicked my door open and stumbled out onto the wet highway. The rain had stopped, leaving a heavy, suffocating fog in its wake. The black truck that had run us off the road was parked twenty yards away, its engine idling like a sleeping beast.

"Harper!" I screamed into the fog.

"I'm here," a voice called out.

I spun around. Harper was standing near the edge of the woods that lined the highway. But she wasn't alone.

A man in a dark tactical jacket was standing behind her, a gun pressed firmly against her temple.

It wasn't Sterling.

It was the company's general counsel. David Vance. My father's younger brother. My uncle.

"Uncle David?" I gasped, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. "What are you doing?"

David stepped out of the shadows, pushing Harper forward. His face, usually kind and creased with easy smiles, was a mask of cold, unfeeling stone.

"Hello, Eleanor," David said softly. "I'm sorry it had to come to this."

"You..." I stammered, the pieces falling into place with sickening speed. "You're the one. Sterling isn't running the syndicate. You are."

David offered a sad, patronizing smile. "Sterling is a clown. A greedy, incompetent puppet. He was useful for a time, a perfect lightning rod for suspicion. But he got sloppy."

"He killed my father!" I screamed, tears finally spilling hot down my cheeks.

"No, Eleanor," David said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I killed your father."

I stopped breathing. The world seemed to shrink down to the barrel of the gun pressed against Harper's head.

"Richard was weak," David continued, shaking his head. "He built this beautiful infrastructure—the shipping lanes, the political connections, the warehouse networks—and he wanted to waste it all on manufacturing tractor parts. I saw the real potential. I saw the future."

"Human trafficking," I whispered, bile rising in my throat.

"Supply and demand," David corrected coldly. "But Richard found out. He found the microfiche. He hid it in that ridiculous watch and told Martin."

He gestured with his chin toward the crushed SUV. "I knew Martin was too loyal. I knew he would try to play hero. So I let him think Sterling was the mastermind. I let Harper run her little espionage game. It kept everyone looking in the wrong direction."

Harper struggled against his grip, but David jammed the gun harder against her skull. "Don't move, sweetheart. You've caused enough trouble tonight."

"Let her go, David," Martin's voice rang out.

I turned. Martin had pulled himself out of the wreckage. He was leaning heavily against the car, blood pouring down his face, but he was holding Julianne’s matte-black handgun. He must have picked it up from the ballroom floor.

David laughed. "You're going to shoot me, Martin? You're an accountant."

"I'm a father," Martin said. His hand didn't shake.

"If you shoot me, she dies," David said, pulling Harper closer.

"If I give you the watch, will you let her go?" Martin asked.

"Toss it," David demanded.

Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver watch. He tossed it through the air. It landed with a heavy clink on the wet asphalt, halfway between them.

David looked at the watch, then at Martin. He sneered.

"You always were a fool, Martin." David raised his gun, aiming it squarely at Martin’s chest.

"No!" I screamed, lunging forward.

BANG.

The gunshot echoed through the dense trees, a deafening crack that seemed to rip the night in half.

But Martin didn't fall.

David did.

He dropped to his knees, a blossoming red stain spreading across his shoulder. Harper ripped herself out of his grip, kicking his gun away as she scrambled toward us.

I looked back at the woods.

Standing in the fog, holding a smoking hunting rifle, was a man I hadn't seen in two years.

He was older, his face scarred and his hair gray, but his posture was unmistakable.