He Threw Scalding Coffee at a Helpless Waitress—Until the Man in the $5,000 Suit Stood Up and Whispered Three Terrifying Words!

Liam didn't waste a second. He dragged the bodies into the interior hallway, systematically looting their gear: spare magazines, tactical zip-ties, a military-grade encrypted radio handset, and a set of vehicle transponders.

Rachel stood in the center of the ruined living room, staring at the brass shell casing that had ejected from her revolver onto the floorboards. She was shaking, but the trembling was no longer born of helplessness. A strange, sharp clarity had settled behind her eyes.

"They won't stop, will they?" she asked, her voice steady now, devoid of the tears that had choked her earlier. "Even if we hide. Even if we run to another state, change my name again. Sterling will never stop hunting me."

Liam tossed a black tactical windbreaker across the counter toward her. "Men like Marcus Sterling don't stop until they are either in a federal penitentiary or a six-foot ditch. As long as you breathe, you are an existential threat to his freedom."

"Then we stop running," Rachel said.

Liam paused, looking up from the encrypted radio he was reprogramming. His slate-gray eyes assessed her with renewed interest. "Excuse me?"

"You said the merger happens tomorrow at noon," Rachel said, stepping over the shattered splintered remains of the front door frame. "You said the evidence in the Manhattan vault is only useful if it's tied to that cylinder before the contracts are signed. Where is Sterling right now?"

A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of Liam’s mouth—the first hint of genuine emotion she had seen from him since he stood up in the diner.

"He's hosting a pre-merger gala," Liam replied. "At the Penthouse of the Alexander Hotel on 5th Avenue. Every senator, maritime commissioner, and federal prosecutor on his payroll is currently in that ballroom."

"Then that’s where we’re going," Rachel said, pulling the black windbreaker over her burnt, bandaged shoulder, ignoring the sharp flare of pain. "I spent eighteen months cleaning greasy tables, scrubbing toilets, and apologizing to drunk bastards like Grant while the man who murdered my father sipped champagne. I’m done hiding in roadside diners."

Liam picked up the encrypted radio. A voice crackled through the small speaker—cold, nasal, and impatient.

*"Team One, report. Confirm target status. Kovacs out."*

Liam keyed the mic. He didn't alter his voice. He didn't disguise the calm, predatory cadence that had made Grant crumble on the diner floor.

"Kovacs," Liam said into the radio.

A long, suffocating pause stretched over the airwaves. On the other end, the sound of rain tapping against a car windshield could be heard, followed by the rustle of a heavy coat.

*"Vance,"* Kovacs’s voice returned, darker now, stripped of its arrogance. *"I should have known Sterling’s former lapdog was behind this. You're out of your depth, Liam. You killed three men who don't exist on paper. But you can't protect her from the entire apparatus."*

"Your three men were sloppy," Liam replied, his tone conversational as he checked the magazine of his sidearm. "And you made the mistake of leaving your perimeter vehicle parked on the eastern access road. I have your transponder codes, Victor. Which means by the time you reach the ridge, we’ll already be inside your secondary transport."

*"You won't make it past the Lincoln Tunnel,"* Kovacs snarled.

"I won't need to," Liam said softly. "Tell Marcus that Henry Cole’s daughter is coming to collect her inheritance. And tell him to save a glass of champagne for me."

Liam crushed the radio beneath the heel of his boot, shattering the plastic casing into a dozen jagged fragments.

He turned to Rachel and held out his hand.