Damien stared at her as if she had just spoken in a dead language. The Maserati was still tearing down the empty stretch of highway at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.

"Are you joking?" Damien demanded, his hands gripping the steering wheel. "Do you even know how to disable a bomb?"

"I’ve watched a lot of YouTube videos," Aria stated, kicking off her heels. "I’m pretty sure I can do it."

Damien’s jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. "Aria, this isn’t a game. This isn’t a movie set. There’s an actual bomb under there."

"I am well aware of that, Damien!" Aria snapped back, her emerald eyes locking onto his with unwavering conviction. "I wouldn’t be suggesting this if I wasn’t sure I could do it! We are running out of road! And we are running out of time! Please, just trust me!"

Damien looked at the road ahead. He looked at the side mirror, where the two black motorcycles were closing the distance. And then, he looked at his wife’s fierce, determined face.

He took a sharp breath.

Against every single one of his better judgments, Damien slammed his foot down on the brakes.

SCREEEEECH.

The tires wailed against the asphalt, leaving thick black lines of burnt rubber as the car decelerated. The G-force threw them hard against their seatbelts, the smell of friction and exhaust instantly flooding the cabin.

Before the car had even completely stopped rocking on its suspension, Aria popped the glove compartment. She frantically dug past the documents inside and pulled out a multi-tool with built-in wire cutters.

She unbuckled her seatbelt.

Before she could grab the door handle, Damien reached across the console. He gently grabbed her by the nape of her neck and pulled her into a desperate kiss.

Aria kissed him back with matching urgency, her fingers digging into the Kevlar vest strapped tightly across his chest.

Damien pulled back just a fraction of an inch, his forehead resting against hers, his golden eyes burning into hers.

"I love you, Aria," Damien rasped.

"I love you, Damien," Aria whispered back, her chest heaving. "Keep them distracted. And please, try not to get yourself killed."

"Don’t get us all killed," Damien countered grimly.

"I won’t. Just don’t let them know I’m under the car," she instructed.

Damien threw his door open, stepping out to use his large frame and the open door to shield her from the approaching vehicles. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Aria didn’t hesitate. She slipped out the door behind him, dropping to the rough, hot asphalt. She shimmied on her back, sliding under the extremely low clearance of the Maserati’s undercarriage.

It was cramped. The heat radiating from the engine block was suffocating, and the smell of oil and burnt rubber stung her nose.

And the sound was deafening.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Aria scrambled backward on her elbows until she spotted it. Magnetically clamped to the steel chassis directly beneath the center console was a brick of grey C4 explosive, wired to a digital detonator.

The red numbers were glowing brightly in the dark.

02:30.

"I see it," Aria whispered loud enough for Damien to hear her. "Two minutes and thirty seconds."

She took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

’Okay. Okay,’ Aria hyped herself up. ’You are a bomb disposal expert. You are Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker. No pressure. Just you and your husband’s life depending completely on you cutting the right wire.’

She opened her eyes, flicking open the wire cutters on the multi-tool.

She stared at the tangled mess of red, blue, and yellow wires.

A sudden, paralyzing wave of panic hit her. ’Wait. Which wire did the guy in the video cut? Was it the red one?’

Aria gritted her teeth. ’Focus. You can do this.’

Above her, the deafening roar of engines surrounded the Maserati. The two motorcycles skidded to a halt on the asphalt, followed closely by the grinding brakes of the truck.

Boots hit the pavement.

"Well, well, well," a woman’s voice sneered.

Beneath the car, Aria froze. Her hands stopped hovering over the wires.

She knew that voice. It sounded incredibly familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

Aria strained her ears over the sound of the ticking bomb, listening as the confrontation unfolded above her.

"Surprised to see me?" the woman mocked.

Damien Sinclair stood tall beside the open door of the Maserati. The wind whipped his unbuttoned, ruined white shirt around the Kevlar vest he wore. His hand rested casually near the Glock tucked into his waistband, his posture relaxed and completely unbothered.

He stared at the woman. She had just pulled her tinted motorcycle helmet off, letting it drop to the asphalt so she could deliver her dramatic, triumphant villain reveal.

Damien tilted his head. He looked at her with an expression of blank boredom.

"And who are you?" Damien asked, his voice flat.

The woman’s triumphant, cocky smirk shattered. A humiliated flush of crimson flooded her cheeks.

"I’m Elena Sterling, you asshole!" Elena shrieked, her voice cracking with indignant rage. "We played together as kids!"

Beneath the exhaust pipe, Aria’s eyebrows shot up.

’Elena Sterling?!’ Aria thought, completely bewildered. ’The daughter of the fraudulent bank tycoon? What the hell is she doing with a car bomb?!’

"I still have no idea who you are," Damien responded dryly.

Elena looked like she was going to have an aneurysm. Her face was beet-red with anger and the crushing embarrassment of having her main-character revenge moment completely obliterated by his indifference.

"You and your bitchy wife ruined my father!" Elena screamed, pointing a shaking, leather-gloved finger at him. "You ruined my life! You destroyed my entire family! Because of you, we lost our penthouses! We lost our accounts! I had to sell my vintage bags on the internet!"

Damien didn’t even blink. His golden eyes slowly drifted away from the screaming, tantrum-throwing socialite.

He shifted his gaze to the man standing right beside her. The man hadn’t removed his motorcycle helmet. He stood perfectly still, his hands resting near his waist.

But as Damien’s cold gaze locked onto him, the man visibly stiffened. He shrank backward half a step as if he locked eyes with a monster.

Damien slowly returned his gaze to Elena.

"It is very brave of you to show your face to me," Damien noted quietly. It wasn’t a compliment. It was a promise of a closed-casket funeral.

Elena, blinded by her own arrogance and the belief that she held all the cards, simply smirked.

"Brave?" Elena scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I’m the one holding the detonator, Damien. I orchestrated this entire thing. I planted the bomb. I had your little security convoy detoured. I jammed your signals. You are entirely alone out here."

As if on cue, the metal doors of the truck parked behind the motorcycles swung open.

Almost a dozen men piled out onto the highway. They didn’t wear masks. They looked rugged, dangerous, and completely unfazed by the heat. The distinctive, dark ink of coiled snakes tattooed across their necks and hands was put on full display.

"Allow me to introduce my new friends," Elena smiled, gesturing to the men fanning out across the road. "The Vipers. But you should already know all about them. They have business with your wife, and I have business with you."

Elena took a step forward, a smug grin stretching across her face.

"You have two options, Damien," Elena announced, reveling in her perceived power. "Option one: You hand over your wife. I know she’s cowering in that passenger seat...and you return everything that was taken from my father and me. If you do that, I disable the bomb, and you get to walk away."

She gestured lazily to the wall of armed cartel members flanking the highway.

"Or we go with option two," Elena smiled. "We do it my friends’ way. They shoot you, they take Aria anyway, and we scrape what’s left of you off the asphalt when the timer hits zero."

Elena tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with pure malice.

"If I were you," Elena whispered, "I would definitely go with the first option. But it’s your choice."