The heat inside the garage was thick, clinging to the air like a heavy blanket.

The desert wind howled around the rusted pumps of the gas station. Inside the dim, flickering light of the Charger, Marcus looked at the woman he loved, realizing she had hardened into something lethal.

"Blackmail Silas Vance?" Marcus ran a hand over his face. "That's suicide. He has an army."

"He has an army, but we have his leash," Elena countered, pulling a sleek, military-grade laptop from the backseat. "We isolate him. The defense contractor deal goes down in forty-eight hours at his private estate in Los Angeles. All the major players will be there. We infiltrate the party, access his mainframe, and broadcast the ledger to the world."

Marcus stared at her. "Infiltrate Vance’s estate? It’s a fortress."

"That's why I need the best wheelman and vault-cracker in the world," Elena said softly, her hand reaching out to touch his grease-stained fingers. "I didn't come back just to save you, Marcus. I came back to finish this. We take him down, or we die trying. But we do it together."

Marcus looked at the titanium drive, then at Elena. The years of hiding, the quiet desperation, the suffocating heat of the garage—it was all a facade. He was born for the chaos.

"Okay," Marcus said, his eyes darkening with resolve. "But if we're going into the lion's den, we need proper gear. The Indian."