Chapter 4
Elara Vance didn't scream, and she didn't hesitate.
She stepped out of the doorway, holding a heavy bronze letter opener she had slipped from a desk.
Before the hitter could pull the trigger, she drove the bronze spike directly into his carotid artery.
The massive man dropped his weapon, his hands flying to his neck as he collapsed in a silent, bloody heap.
The other two hitters spun around, their eyes wide in absolute shock.
This was supposed to be a helpless secretary, a ghost in a beige cardigan.
Elara didn't give them a moment to process the reality of their situation.
She moved with terrifying fluidity, sweeping the dropped shotgun up from the floor with her foot.
She caught it, racked the pump with a sharp crack, and fired a single round into the chest of the second man.
He flew backward, crashing through a heavy wooden door and splintering it to pieces.
The third man roared in anger, lunging at her with a serrated combat knife.
Elara simply sidestepped his clumsy attack, grabbed his extended arm, and twisted it until the bone snapped loudly.
As he fell to his knees in agony, she delivered a flawless, crushing strike to his temple with the butt of the shotgun.
The hallway fell dead silent, save for the distant gunfire echoing from the foyer downstairs.
Julian stood a few feet away, his pistol still raised, staring at the carnage.
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Three of the deadliest men in New York were dead or incapacitated on his expensive rug.
And his mousy secretary was calmly wiping the bronze letter opener on the sleeve of a dead man’s jacket.
