The doctor gave me **three days to live**. My mother gave herself three days to become rich.

A sleek white Gulfstream G550 private jet sat on the polished concrete apron inside Hangar 4, its twin engines whining as they spooled up for taxi.

A luggage cart sat near the open boarding stairs, loaded with heavy aluminum flight cases containing millions of dollars in liquidated assets, bearer bonds, and my father's stolen military bonds.

Vivian stood near the stairs, wearing a white mink coat, furiously typing on her phone.

Beside her stood Marcus Vance—a tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke Italian suit, holding a leather briefcase chained to his wrist. Two armed private security guards stood near the nose of the aircraft.

The thunderous roar of my Corvette echoes through the steel hangar as I slammed the car to a halt fifty yards away, angling the heavy vehicle to block the nose-gear of the private jet.

Vivian dropped her phone in shock.

Marcus Vance pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his jacket, stepping in front of her. "What the hell is that?!"

I stepped out of the Corvette, holding the SIG Sauer low at my side.

The bright halogen floodlights of the hangar caught my face. The grease, the sweat, the blood on my cargo pants—and the cold, lethal resolve in my eyes.

Vivian gasped, taking a horrified step backward onto the jet stairs.

"Claire...?" she whispered, her voice trembling in absolute disbelief. "No... no, it's impossible... Dr. Whitmore said..."

"Dr. Whitmore is currently being fitted for a orange jumpsuit, Vivian," I said, my voice echoing through the massive hanger. "And your flight to Zurich has been canceled."

Marcus Vance sneered, motioning to his two armed guards. "Kill her. Put a bullet in her head and throw her body in the cargo bay!"

The two guards raised their weapons.

BANG! BANG!

Before the guards could pull their triggers, two high-powered rifle shots cracked from the upper catwalk of the hangar.

Both guards dropped their weapons, collapsing to the floor as non-lethal sniper rounds struck their shoulders.

The high glass windows of the hangar shattered into a million pieces.

Heavy black ropes dropped from the ceiling rafters, and six heavily armed NCIS Tactical Operators clad in black body armor rappelled down into the hangar, their assault rifles equipped with bright green laser sights targeting Marcus Vance and Vivian.

"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW!" the tactical team leader screamed.

Marcus Vance dropped his revolver, dropping to his knees with his hands locked behind his head.

Vivian stood frozen on the aircraft stairs, staring wildly at the tactical operators surrounding the jet.

Special Agent Robert Vance stepped through the main hangar doors, holding a thick red warrant folder.

"Vivian Bennett," Agent Vance announced calmly. "You are under arrest by order of the United States Federal Court for conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, bank fraud, wire fraud, and grand theft of military assets."

Vivian looked at the armed operators, then at Marcus Vance cowering on the concrete floor, and finally at me.

Her arrogance, her polished high-society posture, her cold superiority—it all melted away in a single second, leaving behind an empty, pathetic woman facing the total destruction of her life.

She slowly walked down the metal stairs, tears of pure rage running down her face.

As the tactical operators moved in to lock hand-shackle cuffs around her wrists, Vivian looked at me, her eyes filled with venomous hatred.

"You ruined everything!" she shrieked, her voice echoing pathetically off the steel walls. "You pathetic, wretched girl! I should have killed you six years ago!"

I walked right up to her, looking down into the eyes of the woman who had brought me into the world only to sell me for gold.

"You didn't ruin my life, Vivian," I said quietly, my voice ringing with complete authority. "You just tested it. And like my father taught me... a soldier learns to endure."

Agent Vance pulled her away, loading her into the back of an armored police transport alongside Marcus Vance.

My body suddenly gave out.

The adrenaline that had kept me standing for four hours evaporated. My knees buckled, and the world began to spin in dizzying circles of black and silver.

Before I hit the hard concrete floor, strong arms caught me.

It was Samuel Reed, flanked by two navy medical corpsmen holding emergency oxygen masks and IV bags of chelating fluids.

"I got you, Commander," Samuel said gently, laying me back onto a soft stretcher. "The General's work is done."

I looked up at the high ceiling of the hangar, closing my eyes as the cold oxygen mask was pressed over my face.