Return Of The Lethal Unwanted Heiress

The power drill screamed through the thick afternoon heat inside the Pine Creek garage.

Allison was bent over a wrecked Mustang's engine, motor oil and sweat sticking to her skin. Ricky, the teenage apprentice, stood three feet away with a wrench in his hand, eyes wide. He couldn't follow her movements-she stripped wires before he could blink.

She grabbed a tangled knot of cables and yanked hard.

The dead engine coughed once. Then it roared to life, the rumble shaking through the concrete floor.

"Holy shit," Ricky breathed, stepping back.

Allison didn't smile. She tossed a filthy rag onto the hood. Her face was blank, jaw tight.

A cracked cell phone vibrated on the metal workbench behind her. The caller ID flashed a number from Aethelgard.

Allison's stomach dropped. Something cold and sour coated the back of her throat. She wiped her thumb on her pants and hit speaker.

"Stop playing around in the dirt, Allison."

Sterling Conner's voice filled the garage. Arrogant. Impatient.

Allison let out a slow breath and reached for a half-empty can of cola.

"You are to be at the Aethelgard estate tomorrow morning," Sterling ordered. "No excuses. I'm done letting you embarrass this family."

She hooked her finger under the tab and popped it open. The hiss cut through the garage.

"Dream on," she said.

A sharp intake of breath came from the other end.

"You ungrateful little bitch," he snarled. "You think you have a choice?"

Allison took a sip. The cold burned down her throat. She said nothing.

"If you aren't standing in my foyer by tomorrow," Sterling dropped his voice, "I will permanently freeze your mother's trust fund. Every single cent."

The word hit her like a punch to the gut.

Her fingers clamped down on the can. The aluminum crumpled. Cola spilled over her knuckles and dripped onto the concrete.

Ricky backed into the tool rack, his shoulder blades hitting metal. He stared at her, heart hammering.

Allison closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell fast. She needed that trust fund. Not for the money-for the safety deposit box keys hidden inside the accounts. Keys that led straight to the 319 Project.

She forced her muscles to loosen. Her eyes opened.

"I have a private matter to handle tomorrow," she said, voice dropping back to a lazy drawl. "I'll be there the day after."

Sterling let out a harsh laugh. "Don't play games with me, Allison. You have forty-eight hours. Or you get nothing."

The line went dead.

Allison stared at the phone. Then she hurled the crushed can across the room. It slammed into the metal trash bin with a deafening crash.

"Are you... are you really going back to those people?" Ricky asked, voice shaking.

She turned to the tool rack and pulled a custom tactical knife from the magnetic strip. The blade caught the dim light. She bent down and slid it into the hidden sheath inside her black combat boot.

"Everything that belongs to me," Allison said softly, "I'm taking it back. With interest."

She walked to the rusted sink, grabbed a bar of gritty soap, and scrubbed the oil from her hands. Cold water rushed over her left wrist, washing over the thick black band secured there. A tiny red light on the band pulsed twice.

Her fingers were going numb. The anger had triggered it.

Allison reached into her front pocket, pulled out a small white pill, and swallowed it dry. It scratched the back of her throat. Within seconds, the freezing sensation in her veins began to fade. Color returned to her pale cheeks. Her breathing leveled out.

She grabbed her heavy black leather jacket from a hook on the wall, shoved her arms into the sleeves, and zipped it up to her chin, hiding the pale skin of her neck.

Outside, she swung her leg over her heavily modified black motorcycle and pulled her matte black helmet over her head. She kicked the starter. The bike roared.

Allison twisted the throttle. The motorcycle tore out of the dirt lot and shot into the dark road.