Broken By The Heir, Claimed By Power

"No," Elena said, leaning forward, squinting through the windshield. "Keep going. We need distance."

"We're making a death wish," Ben muttered, but he kept driving.

Traffic on I-95 slowed to a crawl. Red brake lights stretched out ahead of them like a river of blood.

Then, everything stopped.

"Accident," Ben said. "Big one."

Elena's pulse jumped. "Turn on the scanner."

Ben flipped a switch on the dashboard. The police scanner crackled to life. "Dispatch, we have a multi-vehicle pileup near mile marker 42. Tractor-trailer jackknifed. Possible entrapment. Fire and Rescue are ten minutes out."

Ten minutes.

"Pull onto the shoulder," Elena ordered.

"That's illegal," Ben said.

"Ben, look at that smoke." Elena pointed. Black smoke was rising into the rain-streaked sky ahead. "Someone is trapped. Drive."

Ben sighed, defeated. He steered the van onto the gravel shoulder and inched forward, bypassing the gridlock.

As they got closer, the scene came into focus. It was chaos. An eighteen-wheeler lay on its side across three lanes. A sedan was crushed against the median. Debris-glass, metal, cargo-littered the wet asphalt.

And there were no sirens yet. They were the first ones here.

"Stop here," Elena said. She grabbed her camera bag and the first-aid kit she kept under the seat. Her mother had been a war correspondent in the Balkans; Elena had learned how to tourniquet a wound before she learned algebra.

"Elena, it's dangerous!" Ben yelled as she opened the door.

The wind ripped the door from her hand. The rain hit her like pellets of ice. She stepped out, her heels sinking into the mud. She kicked them off. She ran in her stocking feet toward the wreck.

"Get the shots!" she screamed back at Ben. "Wide angle! Get the smoke!"

She ran toward the truck. The cab was mangled. The driver was slumped over the wheel, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead.

Elena climbed up the side of the cab, the metal slick with rain and diesel fuel. She peered through the shattered window.

"Hey! Can you hear me?"

The driver groaned. "My legs... stuck."

"Help is coming!" Elena shouted. She tried to pry the door open, but the metal was twisted shut.

She looked around for something to break the remaining glass.

A roar cut through the sound of the rain.

Elena turned.

A motorcycle, moving way too fast for the conditions, had lost control on the oil-slicked road. The rider had bailed, but the bike-four hundred pounds of steel-was sliding sideways, sparking against the pavement, hurtling straight toward the truck cab where Elena was perched.

"Look out!" someone screamed.

Elena didn't think. She jumped.

She pushed off the truck cab, throwing herself backward into the muddy embankment of the median.

She hit the ground hard. The air left her lungs.

The motorcycle slammed into the truck right where she had been standing a second ago. CRUNCH.

Elena rolled, trying to stop her momentum. Her right foot twisted violently in the soft mud, catching on a buried root.

POP.

A sickening sensation tore through her ankle-not a break, but a severe, tearing wrench that felt like fire shooting up her shin.

She screamed, the sound lost in the storm.

She lay there in the mud, gasping, rain plastering her hair to her face. She tried to move her foot. Agony. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to sit up. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping her from passing out.

Through the haze of pain, she saw headlights cutting through the gloom. Not red and blue. White. Xenon.

A convoy of three black SUVs was navigating the shoulder, forcing their way through the debris. They looked like predators. Government plates.

They stopped thirty yards away.

Elena propped herself up on her elbows, shivering violently.

The doors of the middle SUV opened.

Two men in suits jumped out, holding umbrellas. They weren't protecting themselves. They were flanking the third man who emerged.

He didn't run. He walked with a terrifying calm. He wore a charcoal trench coat that looked like it cost more than the van she arrived in. He ignored the rain soaking his dark hair.

He pointed at the truck. The bodyguards dropped the umbrellas and sprinted toward the trapped driver, moving with military precision.

The man in the trench coat stood alone in the storm, watching.

Elena reached for her camera. Her hands were shaking, slippery with mud and blood. She lifted the viewfinder to her eye.

She zoomed in.

The face came into focus. High cheekbones. Eyes the color of slate. A jawline that could cut glass.

Julian Sterling. The Mayor.

The man who was supposed to be at a fundraiser in Manhattan right now. What was he doing on I-95 in the middle of a storm?

He turned.

Through the lens, his eyes met hers.

He didn't look surprised. He looked... annoyed. Cold. Like she was a complication he hadn't accounted for.

Elena snapped the photo.

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