Wreckage

The sound of twisting metal was sickening, a screech that tore through the quiet of the mountain pass. The Jeep shuddered as it slammed into the driver's side of the first sedan, the impact throwing Elena against the door. Glass exploded inward, showering her in glittering diamonds.

She didn't stop. She couldn't.

She threw the Jeep into reverse, tires spinning in the mud, then slammed it back into drive. She rammed the second car, pushing it just enough to clear a path.

"Hold on!" she screamed over the roar of the engine.

The Jeep surged forward, bucking over the ditch, suspension groaning. She hit the pavement of the main road with a jarring thud that rattled her teeth.

Behind them, men were scrambling out of the wrecked sedans. Arthur's men. But they were on foot now, their vehicles crippled.

Elena floored it. The Jeep wasn't fast, but it was heavy, a tank made of rust and steel.

She glanced in the rearview mirror. No headlights followed.

"Are they coming?" Sebastian asked from the back. His voice was small, terrified.

"No," Elena said, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel. "We lost them."

She looked down at Leo. He was still unconscious, his breathing shallow. Sophie was awake, her eyes wide, clinging to her brother's arm.

"Where are we going?" Sophie whispered.

"To the police?" Sebastian asked.

"No," Elena said. "The police work for Arthur. Or Victoria. We can't trust them."

She looked at the fuel gauge. Quarter tank. Enough to get to the estate. Enough to crash the Gala.

But she couldn't take the children there. It was a war zone.

She needed a safe house. Somewhere off the grid.

She thought of Marcus. He was at the Gala. Or trying to get there.

She thought of Mrs. Vance. She was at the hospital, guarding Thomas.

She had no one.

Except...

She remembered the kid from the general store. The one she had carjacked. He had been sleeping in the Jeep. Which meant he lived nearby. Or he was hiding too.

She looked at the glove box. It was hanging open from the impact. Inside, amidst the clutter of old receipts and candy wrappers, was a registration card.

*owner: Jericho "Jerry" Smith. Address: 44 Old Mill Road.*

Old Mill Road. It was a dead-end track near the reservoir. Isolated. Forgotten.

It wasn't a fortress. But it was a place no one would look for a St. Clair.

She turned the wheel, veering off the highway onto a gravel access road.

"We're going to a friend's house," she lied.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled up to a dilapidated cabin. It was dark, the windows boarded up. But there was a woodshed in the back, its door hanging off one hinge.

She drove the Jeep inside and killed the engine.

Silence rushed in, heavy and suffocating.

"Stay here," she told Sebastian. "Lock the doors. Don't open them for anyone but me."

"Where are you going?" he asked, grabbing her arm.

"To finish this," she said.

She climbed out. She checked Leo one last time. He was still out, but his color was better. The fresh air had helped.

She kissed his forehead. She kissed Sophie.

"I'll be back," she promised. "I swear."

She closed the door.

She walked out of the shed. She needed a car. A clean car.

She found it under a tarp near the cabin. An old motorcycle. A Triumph. Rusted, but the tires were inflated.

She checked the gas tank. Half full.

She found the key under a rock on the porch—the universal hiding spot for people who had nothing worth stealing.

The bike roared to life on the third kick.

Elena straddled the seat. The wind whipped her torn velvet dress around her legs. She looked like a banshee. A avenging angel.

She throttled the engine.

The Gala was twenty miles away. She had forty minutes.

She tore down the driveway, hitting the main road at sixty.

She rode hard, leaning into the curves, the cold air stinging her face. She was a bullet aimed at the heart of the St. Clair dynasty.

She reached the estate gates at 9:55 PM.

The line of limousines was gone. The guests were inside. The security checkpoint was manned by two guards and a dog.

She didn't slow down.

She aimed for the pedestrian gate, the small iron door used by the staff. It was locked.

She hit it at forty miles an hour.

The lock snapped. The bike fishtailed, skidding across the gravel.

She laid it down, sliding, sparks flying from the chrome.

She tumbled onto the grass, rolling to a stop near the fountain.

The guards were shouting, running toward her.

She scrambled up. She was bleeding from a dozen cuts, her dress ruined, her hair wild.

She ran toward the house.

She didn't go to the front door. She went to the terrace. To the French doors that opened into the ballroom.

She saw them inside. The Director. The politicians. The bankers.

And Arthur.

He was on the stage, holding a microphone. He was smiling. He had a bandage on his forehead, but he looked triumphant.

"And so," he was saying, "it is with great pride that I announce the formation of the Sebastian St. Clair Memorial Trust..."

Elena grabbed a heavy stone planter.

She threw it through the glass.

The crash was deafening. The music stopped. The crowd screamed.

Elena stepped through the shattered frame. She stood there, panting, bleeding, a specter of vengeance.

"He's lying!" she screamed.

She reached into her pocket.

She pulled out the hard drive.

And then she saw him.

Sebastian.

He was standing next to Arthur. In a tuxedo. Smiling.

He opened his eyes. 'Did you bring the car?'