The greasy smell of the La Serenata alleyway hit Lena like a physical blow as she burst through the service door, her worn sneakers skidding wildly across the frozen asphalt. Her chest burned with a familiar, searing agony, the cold February air tearing at her lungs with every jagged breath. She had broken the cardinal rule of her eight-month exile: she had stopped being a ghost.

The bullet didn't hit Lena. It slammed directly into the center of Detective Vance’s forehead, spraying a mist of dark blood and bone fragments across the frosty asphalt. Vance’s eyes went completely blank before his body collapsed limply into the dirt.

"Down! Get down!" roared one of Marco’s bodyguards, lunging forward to shove his boss behind the armored door of an SUV.

Chaos erupted. Automatic gunfire raked across the pier from the upper gantry of the rusted crane overhead, sparks showering down as bullets chewed into the metal containers.

"Sniper on the gantry!" another guard yelled over the din, returning fire with a compact submachine gun.

Lena dropped flat onto her stomach, pressing her face against the freezing ground as lead whistled inches above her head. The world narrowed to the smell of cordite, wet concrete, and absolute terror.

Suddenly, a heavy, gloved hand seized the collar of her filthy hoodie and yanked her violently upward.

"Move!" Marco barked, his face inches from hers, utterly devoid of fear despite the bullets pinging off the SUV door beside them. He didn't let go of her as he shoved her head-first into the back seat of the bulletproof vehicle, diving in right behind her as the driver slammed the gas pedal.

The SUV fishtailed violently, tires spinning on the slick pavement before rocketing off the pier and plunging back toward the city streets.

Inside the armored cabin, the air smelled of expensive leather and gun oil. Lena was hyperventilating, her hands clawing at her chest as the adrenaline crash threatened to tear her apart.

Marco sat beside her, perfectly composed, wiping a speck of Vance’s blood off his immaculate overcoat with a silk handkerchief. He looked at Lena with a chilling, calculating intensity.

"Still think I killed your professor?" Marco asked smoothly. "The man on that crane was a federal agent, Dr. Ortiz. Or a very high-ranking internal affairs officer who didn't want Vance talking about who really ordered Dr. Guzman's execution."