My husband’s family never knew I had once been an MMA champion. At my mother-in-law’s BBQ, my brother-in-law poured beer over my head. My husband stood up and told him to apologize to me. He laughed, shoved my husband, then punched him in the mouth. He told me to sit down because it didn’t concern me. Then he grabbed my wrist... and that’s when my sister-in-law started screaming.

I stripped the dead radio from Barton's vest and tossed it up to Ryan, who caught it against his chest. I didn't speak into the mic; an unfamiliar female voice would immediately trigger Marco to alter his route or switch to heavy weaponry. Instead, I clicked the transmit button twice—the standard syndicate code for *all clear, suspect spotted.*

Above us, the scout on the third-floor fire escape shifted his weight, clearly relieved. He swung his legs over the iron railing and began descending the counterweighted ladder, coming down to assist his partner with what he assumed was an easy bag-and-tag.

"Wait behind the stairwell door," I whispered to Ryan. "Don't let him see your face until he hits the ground."

The iron ladder groaned softly under the scout's weight. He was a broad-shouldered brawler with cauliflower ears and the heavy, flat-footed gait of an aging kickboxer. The moment his boots touched the wet concrete, he turned his head toward the dumpster. "Barton? Did you see her? Where’s—"

I exploded out of the alcove.

I didn't give him time to draw, think, or breathe. I closed the gap with a leaping switch-knee aimed squarely at his solar plexus. The impact sounded like a baseball bat striking a side of beef. All the air erupted from his lungs in a wet, ragged gasp.

As he doubled over, clutching his ribs, I hooked his left wrist, spun clockwise, and levered his arm across my shoulder into an inverted standing kimura. With one sharp, torque-heavy pop of my hips, the joint snapped like dry pine.

The man opened his mouth to scream, but Ryan stepped out of the shadows, slamming the butt of his Glock against the side of the scout’s jaw. The brawler dropped like a sack of wet cement onto the pavement.

"Clean," Ryan muttered, looking down at the two unconscious operatives. His pulse was visibly racing in his throat, but his posture was rock-solid. "Now what?"

I crouched beside the second man, digging through his leather jacket. I pulled out a heavy smartphone with an unlocked GPS tracking app glowing on its screen. A pulsing blue dot showed a black Mercedes Sprinter van turning off the interstate, less than six blocks away.

"Marco brought four men in that van," I said, reading the dispatch text on the screen. "They're coming here expecting to breach our living room from the roof and the front door while Barton and this guy seal the alley. They think I'm cornered."

"Let's show them what a cornered dog actually does," Ryan said, his jaw setting hard.

"Not here," I said, looking up at our apartment windows. "The neighbors are innocent. If stray rounds start punching through drywall, someone's kid pays the price. We intercept them at the old rail yard roundhouse three blocks south. It’s on their direct approach route."

I picked up the scout’s radio, pressed the transmit button, and leaned in close. I didn't try to imitate Barton. I used the voice that Victor Reno used to hear over the arena loudspeakers before I cracked his top money-maker’s orbital bone.

"Marco," I said, cold and razor-sharp. "You're taking the wrong exit. Take the roundhouse bypass. If you don't, I'll mail your two advance scouts back to Victor in five separate Amazon boxes."

The radio went dead silent for three agonizing seconds. Then came the deep, raspy chuckle of Marco Rossi.

*"Elena. The undefeated ghost. I knew that coward Derek’s phone call was too good to be true. The boss has missed you, little bird."*

"Roundhouse. Five minutes," I replied. "Come alone, or come with everyone you brought. It won't change the outcome."