The Presidential Suite of the Beverly Wilshire was a tomb of high-end indulgence. The air was thick with the heavy, cloying scent of expensive lilies and the musky afterglow of the four women who lay scattered across the velvet-draped furniture like fallen statues. Dave sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. His skin felt too tight. Every time he looked in the mirror and saw Chris Brown's face—the chiseled jaw, the bleached hair, the tattoos that told a story he hadn't lived—he felt a wave of vertigo.
He had just experienced a level of sexual intensity that David Burd, the awkward Philly rapper, couldn't have imagined in his wildest fever dreams. Those women hadn't just been "hot"; they were professionals. They had treated his body like a high-performance instrument, pushing him to heights of pleasure that felt almost spiritual. But as the adrenaline faded, the "weirdness" returned. He felt like a ghost haunting a mansion.
Then, the phone on the nightstand vibrated. The harsh buzz cut through the silence like a chainsaw.
Dave grabbed it. His heart did a slow, sickening roll in his chest.
Lytrell: Chris, I'm scared. I'm leaving the studio and there's a black SUV with tinted windows following me. I've taken three random turns and he's still there. He's closing the gap. Chris, help me.
The blood in Dave's veins turned to liquid nitrogen. He didn't think about the four girls. He didn't think about the fact that he was currently one of the most recognizable men on Earth. The "Provider" instinct—the one thing that was truly Dave Burd—roared to life.
"Stay here! Nobody leaves this room!" Dave shouted to the waking women as he scrambled into his clothes. He didn't bother with socks. He shoved his feet into a pair of unlaced Jordans, threw on a leather jacket over his bare, tattooed chest, and bolted out the door.
He didn't wait for the elevator. He hit the stairs, his lungs burning, his mind racing. Silas. It had to be Silas. The cleaner was tired of waiting for his money. He was going after the only thing Chris Brown actually loved.
Dave burst into the valet circle like a man possessed. "The Revuelto! Now!"
The valet, terrified by the raw fury on "Chris's" face, scrambled to bring the matte-black Lamborghini around. Dave didn't even wait for the man to get out; he pulled him from the driver's seat and slammed the door. The V12 engine screamed as Dave floored it, the tires leaving thick black ribbons of rubber on the pristine driveway.
He pulled his phone out, hitting the emergency line for Hood, his head of security.
"Hood! Lytrell is being hunted. Black SUV, Burbank area, near the North Pass entrance. I'm heading north on the 101. If they touch her, Hood... if they touch her, there is no more business. There is only a graveyard. Get the team. Now!"
"Copy that, Boss. We're tracking her GPS. We're six minutes out. Don't do anything stupid, Chris. You're not a soldier."
"I'm her brother!" Dave yelled, throwing the phone onto the passenger seat.
He drove like a demon. The Lamborghini was a blur of black glass and screaming metal, weaving through the midnight traffic of Los Angeles. Dave's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He wasn't Dave Burd anymore. He wasn't Chris Brown. He was something else—a cornered animal with the keys to a tank.
He saw the Range Rover first. Lytrell was driving erratically, her hazard lights flashing. And there, tucked right onto her bumper like a shadow, was the black SUV.
Dave didn't hesitate. He didn't try to pull them over. He shifted down, the engine roaring in protest, and aimed the $500,000 Lamborghini directly at the SUV's rear quarter panel.
CRUNCH.
The impact was violent. Airbags deployed in the SUV, and Dave's head slammed against the side window, stars exploding in his vision. The SUV spun out, clipping a fire hydrant and sending a geyser of water into the air.
Dave kicked his door open, stumbling out into the spray of water. His shoulder was screaming in pain, and blood was trickling down his forehead. Across the street, the SUV door groaned open.
Silas stepped out.
He looked like a nightmare. His charcoal suit was dusty, and his face was a mask of cold, clinical detachment. He didn't look angry; he looked like a man who was about to finish a chore. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a heavy, tactical folding knife. The blade flicked open with a sickening snick.
"You're a high-maintenance asset, Chris," Silas said, his voice barely audible over the roar of the water. "But assets can be replaced. Shadows cannot."
"Get. Away. From. Her," Dave rasped. He was shaking, his Philly accent slipping through the cracks of his Breezy persona.
Lytrell had stopped her car a hundred yards away and was running toward them, screaming. "Chris! No! He has a knife!"
Silas lunged.
He was fast—faster than anything Dave had ever seen. But Dave was piloting a body that had been trained for twenty years in dance and athletics. The muscle memory took over. As Silas swung the knife in a horizontal arc, Dave's body ducked instinctively. He felt the wind of the blade pass an inch from his throat.
Dave didn't punch like a boxer. He lunged like a desperate man. He tackled Silas, his weight carrying them both into the brick wall of an alleyway.
They hit the ground hard. Silas was a professional killer, but Dave had the "retard strength" of pure, unadulterated panic. Dave grabbed Silas's wrist, pinning it against the concrete, and began to hammer his fist into Silas's face.
It wasn't a clean fight. It was a brawl. Dave bit, he scratched, he used his elbows. He was screaming—a high, primal sound that echoed off the brick walls.
"You... don't... touch... her!" Dave roared, slamming Silas's head back against the ground.
Silas managed to wedge a knee into Dave's stomach, throwing him off. Silas scrambled up, his face a mess of blood and bruises. He didn't go for the knife this time. He reached into his ankle holster and pulled out a suppressed Glock.
He leveled it at Dave's chest. Dave froze. This was it. The swap was over. He was going to die in a body that wasn't his, in an alleyway he didn't know, for a life he had stolen.
"Goodbye, Chris," Silas whispered.
THWIP. THWIP.
Two muffled shots rang out.
Silas's chest jerked. He looked down at the two red blossoms blooming on his white shirt, a look of genuine confusion on his face. He slumped against the wall, the gun slipping from his fingers, and slid down to the pavement in a seated position. His eyes went dull.
Dave looked up, gasping for air.
Hood was standing at the entrance of the alley, his tactical suppressed pistol raised, his face as cold as stone. Behind him, three other men in black tactical gear moved in like ghosts, securing the perimeter.
"Check the girl," Hood commanded his men, never taking his eyes off Silas's body. He walked over to Dave and offered a hand.
Dave took it, his legs feeling like jelly. He was covered in blood, water, and filth. He looked at Silas—the man who had been his shadow, his tormentor. He was just a corpse now.
"You took the shot," Dave whispered.
"I protect the brand, Chris," Hood said, his voice low and dangerous. "And the brand doesn't get executed in an alleyway by a bottom-feeder like Silas. We'll handle the body. We'll handle the car. You get in the van with Lytrell."
Lytrell threw herself into Dave's arms, sobbing into his chest. Dave held her, his eyes meeting Hood's.
"Is it over?" Dave asked.
"For Silas? Yeah," Hood said, holstering his weapon. "But the people Silas worked for? They're going to want to know why their cleaner didn't come home. This was the easy part, Chris. Now we have to play for keeps."
Dave nodded, his "weird" humor nowhere to be found. He walked Lytrell to the waiting security van, his shoulder throbbing, his mind finally accepting the truth.
He wasn't just playing a part anymore. He was in a war. And if he wanted to keep this life—and keep Lytrell alive—he had to stop being Dave Burd. He had to become the monster everyone already thought he was.
As the van pulled away, Dave looked back at the wreckage of the Lamborghini. Half a million dollars in scrap metal. A small price to pay for a sister.
"Hey, Chris?" Lytrell whispered, clutching his hand.
"Yeah?"
"That was... that was incredible. I've never seen you move like that. You fought like... like you had a different soul."
Dave looked out the window at the neon lights of the city. "Maybe I do, Mama Bear. Maybe I do."