I replaced the lubricant in my husband’s bag with industrial glue after I caught him with my brother’s wife. At 2:00 a.m., the hospital called. “Mrs. Rollins, we can’t separate the two of them.” I arrived carrying six months’ worth of evidence in a folder tucked under my arm, but what I found inside his safe turned that affair into something far more serious.

Arthur turned on his heel and melted back into the crowd before Justin could react.

"We need to leave right now," Justin hissed, his hand resting on the concealed earpiece connecting him to our security team.

"Agreed," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "We go straight to the federal courthouse with Vincent's findings."

We exited the hotel through the private executive valet area. The crisp night air did little to cool the fire burning in my chest.

Our black armored SUV pulled up to the curb, driven by one of Vincent’s trusted operatives. Justin and I climbed into the backseat, the heavy reinforced doors locking shut with an audible click.

"Drive straight to the Golden safehouse," Justin instructed the driver. "I want to make sure Elena is safe."

As our vehicle turned onto the elevated highway leading out of the city, the streetlights above us suddenly flickered and went black.

Within seconds, the headlights of our SUV sputtered, the dashboard navigation screen glitched with static, and the engine completely died. The car began to coast helplessly along the dark asphalt.

"EMP jammer!" the driver yelled, stepping repeatedly on the manual brakes. "They’re cutting our electronics!"

Before the car could come to a complete halt, a heavy commercial flatbed truck roared out of a side access ramp, its high beams blinding us through the front windshield.

"Brace yourselves!" Justin shouted, throwing his body over mine.

The truck slammed into the passenger side of our SUV with a deafening screech of crushing metal and shattering safety glass.

The violent impact spun our vehicle across three lanes before sending it crashing into the concrete highway divider.

Smoke filled the cabin. My head throbbed with white-hot pain, and my vision blurred. I coughed, tasting copper in my mouth as I struggled to sit up.

"Justin!" I screamed, shaking my brother’s arm.

Justin groaned, blood trickling down his forehead, but he was conscious. "I’m... I’m okay," he muttered groggily. "The driver..."

The driver was slumped over the wheel, knocked unconscious by the deployed airbag.

Through the cracked, spider-webbed glass of the rear window, I saw two black tactical vans skid to a stop behind us. Half a dozen men dressed in black body armor and carrying submachine guns jumped out, moving quickly toward our wrecked car.

They weren't here to negotiate. They were here to execute us on the highway.

Suddenly, a deafening screech of tires echoed across the asphalt from the opposite direction. A reinforced gray pickup truck plowed through the highway barricade, slamming directly into the first tactical van and sending Arthur’s mercenaries scattering into the dark.

The passenger door of the pickup flew open, and a familiar voice shouted over the engine roar.