He says this like it’s the most obvious thing. I suppose to a scientist, who deals in theories and solutions, maybe it is. Still, there had to be some forethought. It’s possible this is where we differ. I’m just not a believer in action without motive.

Once he has the cloned device ready, we spend a few minutes searching Ericson’s texts. We uncover deleted messages between Ericson and Brewster, and the most recent thread discusses an upcoming underground fighting event.

Tomorrow night.

My head is already fast at work devising a plan—but it’s Alex who speaks up.

“Oh, no,” he says. “I can see your brain spinning, and this, right here, is a bad idea.”

I turn toward him on the stool, my expression resolute. “I didn’t ask for your input. You’re not here to decide what the plan is. You’re only option is whether or not to back out.” I arch an eyebrow. “Are you ready to back out, Alex?”

He releases a tense breath and drives a hand into his hair. He stares ahead, at one of the Regency paintings along the wall. “I’m in,” is all he says.

I study his profile, again wondering just what he’s getting out of this. He claims he wants to liven up his dull life, and yet I’ve learned through my intense study into the human condition that people rarely give the whole truth.

How long ago did he lose his sister? Was it recent? Maybe her death is what triggered his sudden urgency to experience life. Alex’s tip of the iceberg is innocent enough, but what about the mass beneath?

Alex turns to face me, his body leaning in closer to mine…

“You want to fuck me,” I blurt.

I expect him to scoff, or pull an offended expression, or deny my claim. He does none of the above. Instead, Alex meets my unwavering gaze with a challenge in his pale-blues. “That would make this the most insane and desperate attempt to get laid.”

I shrug one shoulder. “I’m not here to judge. But we did meet in a club where you were looking for some action, and you did try to buy me for a night.”

The corner of his mouth hitches into a smirk. “Touché.” He removes his glasses and places them on the desk before he leans in, placing himself mere inches from my face. “What if I am attracted to you, Blakely? Is that really such an unreasonable idea, the two of us together?”

This bold and cocky side of Alex is interesting. I’m not sure if he’s simply trying out a new experiment or testing a theory, but it feels convincing. And I enjoy sex. I imagine I’d enjoy sex with Alex. In the event he makes it through this job unscathed, I’m sure there will be some intense, heated moments that are met with carnal response.

I push in closer to him, so he can feel my breath against his lips. “Don’t disappoint me…and don’t die. Then we’ll see where this goes.”

I brace my foot on his chair, right between his legs. His nostrils flare, those blue eyes darken with desire…right before I give his chair a hard push backward. The chair coasts a couple of feet, and he chuckles. “Cruel,” he says, shaking his head.

I stand and grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

“You’re a cruel woman, Blakely Vaughn.” His eyes squint with his grin. “But I can be patient.”

“Don’t you know anything about postponed gratification? The reward is always so much sweeter.”

An intense, knowing smile steals over his face. “I’m counting on it.”

Test

Alex

The sharp scrape of the blade across the granite block skitters down my spine. It’s an electric feeling, a tingling sensation, with every pass of the blade as I grind the hunting knife to a razor-thin edge. It’s also a brainless task. Necessary but tedious. Giving my mind the opportunity to wander.

To her.

Blakely’s fierce green eyes. Her sensuous mouth. That rare laugh that bursts free unexpectedly. Those sexy legs as she pushed me away…

It would be arrogant of me not to consider her a physical threat. She’s strong, has obviously dealt with unsavory types in her line of work, so I have no doubt she’s acquired the skills necessary to defend herself.

To wit, she has no apprehension about tonight’s task. She decided to crash an underground MMA fight with zero hesitancy. Her psychopathy dictates her fearless nature. She doesn’t experience fear the way most do. Rather, she observes it, as if it’s a secondhand emotion, only there to sharpen her senses.

I blow the debris off the knife. The four-inch steel doesn’t appear deadly—but the damage it can inflict is lethal. I flatten the blade against my forearm to test the edge. Shave off a layer of hair and dead skin cells. Just like that, so mindlessly, my DNA becomes a part of the room. Dead cells shed to make way for new growth.

How much of Blakely is dead?

Tonight, I test a theory.

Hypothesis 1: Faced with violence, Blakely will a) resort to violence herself, and b) will use me as an instrument for that violence.

Assessing the outcome will help me gauge her ability and the preparation I need to make.

I sink the hunting knife into the black leather holster and strap it to my ankle. A couple years ago, the thought of violence in any form would’ve made me cower. I was repulsed by the Neanderthals that demonstrated this kind of barbaric retaliation.

But…life has a way of testing us. Making us reevaluate our belief systems. I’ve embraced a primitive ideology that the strong devour the weak. Survival of the fittest. And any other cliché that fits.

A text from Blakely appears on my screen: Time to go. Meet me at the station.

I pocket both phones before I head toward the door. Tonight, I make a detour. Before I touch my twin sister’s picture, I pause at the armchair. I bring the pillow to my nose and inhale deeply. Blakely’s fragrance of sweet coconut milk and bergamot consumes my senses. I can taste her on my tongue as I leave my apartment.

Vengeance has a scent, and it smells like Blakely.

Rust claws up a gun-metal gray warehouse set along the East River. Lights from the prison on Rikers Island glow in hazy blooms of yellow and orange against a midnight-blue sky. The earthy aroma of fresh rain and acrid mildew mix with the night air to ground me in the moment.

It’s quiet here on the edge of the city, denoting a sense of solitude, even though a herd of people gather in front of the meat packing warehouse.

Before we arrived, Blakely and I waited near the number 2, growing impatient when Ericson still hadn’t received a text for the fight location. It finally came through fifty minutes ago. According to Blakely, these fights change location, never happening in the same place twice in a row.

We took the train to The Bronx, then a cab dropped us off one street over. She wanted to get a look at the place from a distance, watch people as they arrive. We stand across the street now as Blakely eyes the cut bouncer standing guard at the entrance to our destination.

Tickets for the fight are sold in advance through covert channels—channels we don’t have access to. “What’s the plan to get inside?” I ask.

She scans the crowd, then nods to a guy wearing a puffer jacket standing in the back of the forming line. “Let’s talk to him.” She sets off, but abruptly stops and holds up her hand. “Wait.”

She faces me and places her hands on my chest. She’s a few inches shorter than me, even in heels, and that distinct fragrance that is all her envelops me. A distraction I try to overcome as she moves her palms down my body.

“You change your mind quick,” I say, affecting a smug tone.

Then I realize she’s patting me down. I try to step away, but she drops down and hikes up the cuff of my jeans. With deft reflexes, she snatches the holster off my ankle. As she gets to her feet, she unsheathes the hunting knife. “Christ. Who are you, Rambo?”