The Jilted Heiress And Her Lethal Comeback

Clara pulled the heavy door open and slid into the back seat of the Suburban. She dropped her bag by her feet and read off the address for a downtown hotel.

The driver wore a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He let out a low grunt and slammed his foot on the gas. The SUV jerked forward aggressively.

Clara fell back against the leather seat. Her brow furrowed.

The air inside the car was wrong. It smelled heavily of cheap, stale tobacco and raw motor oil.

She glanced up at the rearview mirror. The driver's eyes were bloodshot and filled with a manic, violent energy. He was staring directly at her reflection.

Outside the window, the exit for the downtown highway flashed by. The driver yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, plunging the car down a cracked access road toward an abandoned industrial park.

Clara's heart rate stayed perfectly steady. She reached for the door handle and pulled.

Clack.

The central locking system engaged. All four doors locked simultaneously.

The driver let out a raspy, psychotic laugh. He reached up and ripped off his cap. "Someone paid a lot of money to see you dead, sweetheart."

Clara didn't scream. She didn't beg. She pressed her back firmly against the seat, her brain rapidly downloading the close-quarters combat algorithms from the hyper-realistic memories of her alternate life.

The driver assumed she was paralyzed by fear. He kept one hand on the wheel and reached under the passenger seat with the other. He pulled out a heavy, black taser. Blue electricity crackled across the prongs.

He slammed on the brakes. The heavy SUV skidded to a violent halt in a dead-end alley between two rusted factories. The smell of burning rubber filled the cabin.

The driver twisted his upper body around. He lunged over the center console, thrusting the sparking taser straight at Clara's chest.

Clara moved with terrifying speed.

She threw her upper body violently to the left. The taser missed her ribs by an inch and plunged into the leather seat, burning a black, smoking hole into the upholstery.

Before the driver could pull his arm back, Clara fired her right leg upward. Her heavy boot connected with the underside of his wrist with bone-shattering force.

Snap.

The driver let out an agonizing scream. The taser dropped from his paralyzed fingers and fell into the front footwell.

Blind with pain and rage, the driver unbuckled his seatbelt and tried to throw his entire body into the back seat to strangle her.

Clara didn't retreat. She grabbed her own seatbelt. She yanked it all the way out, wrapping the tough nylon strap around her fists.

As the driver's head crossed the console, Clara threw the belt over his head like a noose.

She planted both boots against the back of the front seats and pulled backward with everything she had.

The nylon strap dug deep into the driver's windpipe, pinning his neck brutally against the headrest.

The driver's eyes rolled back. He clawed frantically at his throat, his legs kicking wildly against the dashboard. A wet, choking sound escaped his lips.

Clara's face was a mask of stone. Her arm muscles strained.

"Who sent you?" Clara demanded, her voice devoid of human emotion. "Was it Bria Price?"

The driver's face turned purple. The lack of oxygen broke his mind. He managed a pathetic, strangled nod. "Yes."

Clara held the pressure for two more seconds until his eyes fluttered shut. Then, she released the belt.

The driver slumped forward over the console like a sack of dead meat.

Clara climbed over the seat. She picked up the taser, jammed it into his ribs, and pulled the trigger. His body convulsed violently, then went entirely limp.

She hit the unlock button, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the cold, rust-scented air.

She reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. She pressed his limp thumb against the sensor. The screen unlocked. She found the call log showing Bria's recent incoming number, took a photo of the screen with her own phone, and emailed it to her own secure server.

She dialed 911. She injected a perfect note of panic into her voice, reporting an attempted robbery by a deranged driver, giving them the exact location of the alleyway.

She hung up. Her gaze swept over the unconscious body and the smoking vehicle. She couldn't stay here and risk getting tangled in hours of police questioning; time was a luxury she didn't have. She wiped her fingerprints off the door handle with her sleeve, the rough fabric scraping against her knuckles. She turned her back on the SUV and sprinted out of the alley toward the main thoroughfare, her boots pounding against the cracked pavement. As she reached the busy street, she leaned against a cold brick wall, her lungs burning as she caught her breath, and pulled out her own phone to check her notifications.