The engine of the beat-up SUV didn't so much stop as it surrendered. It gave one final, violent shudder before dying in the gutter of the Astoria street, the silence that followed feeling heavier than the mechanical roar. Maya sat in the passenger seat, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Outside the window, the neighborhood was a blurred watercolor of grey brick, faded siding, and the flickering blue glow of televisions visible through living room windows. Every one of those screens was currently broadcasting her face—or rather, the face the world thought was hers.
Beside her, Reid Sterling remained a statue of tension. His hands were still locked on the steering wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white enough to suggest the plastic might snap under his grip. The silver-vined signet ring on his finger caught a stray beam from a streetlamp, glinting with a cold, predatory light.
