The first thing Vanessa Sterling did after kicking the maid was smile for the cameras. The second thing she did was realize the maid had caught her ankle.

The rain was falling in heavy, relentless sheets over Boston as Naomi carried her single duffel bag down the long driveway of Whitmore House.

She wore a simple black coat, her dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She had left her uniform hanging in her small staff quarters, along with her keys and her final paycheck. She didn't want anything from the estate. She only wanted her freedom.

She walked toward the main road, intending to call a rideshare to take her to a quiet motel near the airport. But as she reached the stone gates of the estate, two pair of bright headlights suddenly illuminated the dark road behind her.

An engine roared. A heavy black SUV accelerated rapidly, cutting across the wet asphalt and skidding to a stop directly in front of her, blocking the exit.

Naomi stopped walking. She didn't panic. She let her duffel bag slide off her shoulder, dropping it onto the wet grass beside her feet.

The doors of the SUV flew open. Four men stepped out into the pouring rain. They were not Richard Sterling's sloppy mercenaries.

These men wore heavy tactical coats, dark caps, and reinforced gloves. They moved with mechanical precision, surrounding Naomi in a tight perimeter. The leader—a scarred man in his late thirties with a thick neck and cold gray eyes—stepped forward, his hand resting casually inside his heavy jacket.

"Naomi Reyes," the man said, his voice coarse against the sound of the falling rain. "Mr. Sterling sent us to make sure you actually leave the state. But after reading your file... we decided to make sure you don't leave at all."

Naomi looked at the scarred man. She recognized the tactical discipline immediately. "Redwood Security. Independent contractors. Who hired you? Richard, or Vanessa?"

The man grinned, revealing a row of crooked teeth. "Does it matter? Fifty grand is fifty grand. Mr. Sterling wants your phone, your laptop, and he wants you sleeping at the bottom of the Charles River."

Naomi let out a long, quiet sigh. The rain soaked through her black coat, cold against her skin. She had spent eleven months trying to run away from this life. She had swept floors, washed dishes, and served tea just to escape the cycle of violence.

But as she looked at the four men closing in around her, she realized something Margaret Hale had taught her years ago: Violence doesn't hunt you because you seek it. It hunts you because you are good at it.

"I gave up this life," Naomi said softly, her voice barely audible over the rain. "I promised myself I would never hurt anyone again."

"Too bad," the leader sneered, pulling a silenced 9mm pistol from his coat. "Promises don't mean shit out here."

Before he could raise the weapon, Naomi moved.

She didn't run. She closed the six feet of distance between them in the blink of an eye. Her left hand struck the leader’s wrist, driving the pistol upward as a quiet PFFT echoed into the night air, the bullet tearing harmlessly into the clouds.

In the same breath, Naomi drove her right palm directly into the man’s nose. Bone crunched violently. She grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back with an agonizing snap, and stripped the pistol from his grip in a single fluid motion.

The leader screamed, collapsing onto the wet asphalt, holding his broken wrist.

The other three men froze in absolute shock. They hadn't even seen her move.

Naomi stood in the rain, holding the silenced pistol. She didn't point it at them. Instead, with practiced, terrifying speed, her fingers moved across the weapon—ejecting the magazine, racking the slide to clear the chamber, and dropping the heavy steel components into the mud at her feet.