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Or rather, attackers.

There were three of them, all burly men. Two of them were equipped with blunt metal pipes. The leader, the one who’d struck her, sported a pair of huge fists.

She knew their faces, but not well. She’d never seen them before tonight and she’d only caught a few glimpses of them prior to the riot. Which begged a whole lot of questions. Who were they? Why had they stalked her? And why were they now attacking her?

“I’m feeling nice.” She spat out more blood. “If you leave now, I just might let the three of you live.”

The leader, a tall white guy with gaunt cheeks and a tattooed neck, studied her visage. “Who said there were only three of us?”

Her spine prickled. Immediately, she dropped low, shifted to one side, and stuck out her right foot.

A fourth attacker, caught in mid-lunge, tried to adjust his footing. But he was too late and tripped over her outstretched leg. Arms reeling, he stumbled across the sidewalk on a collision course with the other men.

A satisfied smirk curled across Beverly’s lips. A crash of bodies was inevitable. The four men would fall to the sidewalk, a mess of tangled limbs, and she could be on her way. Actually, wait. She touched her aching jaw. No. Not yet. She needed to dish out a little revenge first.

She stood up, kicked off her heels. Then she eyed the stumbling man, waiting for the crash. But it didn’t happen that way. Instead, the tattooed guy shoved the stumbler to the ground. Then he strode forward, hands tight to his face like a boxer.

She backed away, feigning nervousness. Most likely, her attackers knew her background, knew her capabilities. But they probably had their doubts, given her small stature and skimpy attire. And that was fine with her. Let them think she was some helpless woman who preferred cocktails to combat. Because nothing could be further from the truth.

Thanks to her time in the U.S. Army, she was well-trained in MAC, or Modern Army Combatives. Her striking skills, influenced heavily by Muay Thai, were second to none. Her ground fighting abilities, developed out of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Sambo, were beyond impressive. And thanks to extensive work in wrestling and judo, she could throw and take down larger opponents with the greatest of ease.

The tattooed guy came forward, unleashing punches powerful enough to shatter windows. Beverly continued to backpedal, twisting and shifting, dodging every blow without so much as a single counter-punch. And all the while, she maintained a stunned, horrified look. Like she didn’t know what to do. Like her dodging was just luck, liable to run out at any second.

The guy’s lips curled in frustration. He punched faster, harder. His strikes grew increasingly erratic. Beverly, for her part, continued to bob and weave. Continued to look like she was confused and helpless. Like she couldn’t snap his arm just as easily as she might snap her fingers.

She gave up more ground, moving into the street. Adrenaline raced through her and she felt her anger fade away. Gleeful mirth replaced it. She was enjoying herself, enjoying the fight. It had been way too long since she’d cracked some skulls.

She dodged a few more punches. Waited for a clean opening. Then she thrust her palm out, hard and fast.

It slammed into the tattooed guy’s nose. Bones snapped and cartilage crunched. Tiny waterfalls of oozing blood poured out of his nostrils. His eyes teared up and he screamed falsetto-style.

The two followers, still carrying their metal pipes, froze in place. Their eyes shifted to their weeping leader and Beverly saw hesitation in their faces.

“So,” she said sweetly. “Who’s next?”

They looked at her. No, wait. They weren’t looking at her. They were looking past her. And that could only mean—

A loud burst of air roared out into the night. A projectile slammed into her left shoulder blade. Her pain sensors erupted. She stumbled a few steps, fell to one knee.

In a normal situation, Beverly would’ve sensed the danger, would’ve been ready for it. But the riot, with its constant flow of noise, odors, and movement, had overloaded her senses.

A second projectile crashed into the right side of her waist and dropped to the ground. She toppled over and saw a small fabric-covered object lying on the pavement.

They got me with bean bag rounds? she thought with disgust. Wow, this is embarrassing.

She twisted her head to the other side and saw the shooter. He wore a plain hoodie and carried a modified shotgun in his arms.

The shooter stared daggers at her. Then he slung the shotgun over his shoulder and produced a long knife. Meanwhile, the two followers came up behind her, wielding their pipes and blocking off escape routes. Which meant they didn’t know everything about her background. For Beverly had extensive knowledge of Eskrima melee weapons fighting as well.

She rose to her feet. Her dress had ripped along the slit, revealing much of her tight, curvy body. Her hair had frizzed up and grown sweaty with exertion.

Raising a hand to her mouth, she wiped away a bit of blood. Then she turned in a slow circle, casting looks at her opponents. “What are you waiting for?” She smiled brightly. “Come and get me.”

Chapter 3

What a bunch of phonies.

My calloused fingers curled around the edges of the billowing burgundy curtains. Squinting through a tiny slit, I stared out at the Lindbergh Auditorium’s vast sea of soft velvet seats. It was full of familiar faces — many of them belonging to people who had publicly attacked me over the last few years. But I didn’t see the one that mattered most.

Late again. Typical Beverly.

As I watched the crowd, I was reminded of my youth. Of all those times I’d been on stage or on a field. Surrounded by other kids as their parents cheered us on. I recalled scanning the seats, the bleachers. Looking for faces that would never — could never — appear.

“Where the hell have you been? I told you to meet me in the Great Hall.”

Hiding a grin, I released the curtains and swung around. In the darkness, I spotted a familiar figure. “Are you sure about that? Because I could’ve sworn—”

“Cut the crap, Cy.” Keith Donovan, the newly appointed Senior Advisor to President Wade Walters, strode across the stage. He was tall and snively. Like a snooty rodent walking on hind legs with too-perfect posture. “Next time I tell you to do something, you’d damn well better do it.”

Ahh, here was the Donovan I’d come to know so well… stiff as steel and with all the charm of a cactus patch. “Or what?” I pursed my lips in mock horror. “You’ll revoke my fake award?”

“It’s not—” He paused, gritted his teeth. When he spoke again, it was in a harsh whisper. “It’s not fake. It’s real. There’s a medal and everything.”

“Yes, the Presidential Medal of National Heroism & Cultural Heritage.” I shook my head. “It just rolls right off the tongue.”

His face reddened. “It’s not like I had a lot of time, you know.”

The award, whether Donovan admitted it or not, was a farce. A ruse cooked up by a team of crisis managers in order to divert the world’s attention away from the recent Columbus Project scandal and on to the people who had narrowly averted the ensuing disaster and discovered a monumental treasure in the process. Namely, my team and I.

I would’ve preferred to share the credit with Dutch Graham and Beverly Ginger. Plus, a few other people, too. But none of them wanted anything to do with this. Frankly, I didn’t blame them.

I didn’t want anything to do with it either.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “I’ll go drinking and you can accept the award in my stead. How does that sound?”