The motorcycle died three blocks from the casino.
Dom cursed.
Kicked the engine.
Smoke rose.
Black.
Acidic.
"They're tracking us," he said.
Not surprised.
Resigned.
"How?"
"The folder. RFID chip. Standard Blackwood security."
Scarlett pulled the folder from her jacket.
Thick.
Innocent.
Deadly.
"Can you disable it?"
"Not here. Not now." Dom looked up.
Scanning the rooftops.
The shadows.
"They're already close."
Jules leaned against the alley wall.
Bruised.
Shaking.
But conscious.
Functional.
"I can," he said.
Voice rough.
Throat bruised from Margaret's interrogation.
"Need tools. Power. Five minutes."
"You have three," Scarlett said.
She turned to Dom.
"How many?"
"Six. Maybe eight. Professional."
"Margaret's?"
"Worse." He reached into his jacket.
Pulled a gun.
Gave it to her.
"Freelance. The kind who don't ask names. Just prices."
Scarlett checked the clip.
Full.
She'd never fired a gun in combat.
Only at ranges.
Only when Vincent insisted.
The knife is personal. The gun is survival. Learn both.
She learned.
She survived.
"Take Jules," she said.
"Find the tools. Disable the chip."
"And you?"
Scarlett smiled.
Cold.
Calculated.
The smile that didn't reach her eyes.
The smile that won fights.
"I'm the distraction."
---
She walked into the street.
Alone.
Exposed.
The folder in her left hand.
The gun in her right.
Fog swirled.
Neon signs bled color.
Red.
Blue.
Gold.
"You're tracking the wrong thing," she called out.
Voice carrying.
Confident.
No fear.
Not showing.
The first man emerged from the alley across the street.
Tall.
Masked.
Rifle lowered.
Not aimed.
Not yet.
"The chip's in the folder," Scarlett said.
"Take it. Walk away. Tell Margaret you tried."
The man didn't speak.
Didn't move.
But she felt them.
Others.
Closing.
Circle forming.
"I know the price on my head," she continued.
"Two million. Alive. One million. Dead."
She tossed the folder.
Landed at the man's feet.
"There's thirty million in that folder. Locations. Names. Accounts. Enough to buy your own island. Your own army. Your own freedom from people like Margaret Blackwood."
The man looked down.
Just for a second.
Scarlett moved.
Three shots.
Fast.
Precise.
Not at him.
At the fire escape above.
Rust.
Old.
Unstable.
It collapsed.
Blocked the alley.
Cut off two of his team.
Scarlett ran.
Not away.
Toward.
Gun up.
Butt strike to his temple.
He fell.
She caught the rifle.
Kept moving.
Into the fog.
Into the maze.
---
Dom heard the shots.
Three.
Then silence.
Then running.
"She's buying time," he said.
Dragging Jules.
"Not enough."
"She's Scarlett Vance." Dom found a door.
Kicked it.
Locked.
Kicked harder.
Wood splintered.
"She's enough."
Inside.
An auto shop.
Tools.
Power.
Jules collapsed at a workbench.
Found a soldering iron.
Wire cutters.
"Need the folder," he said.
"She has it."
"Need—"
A window shattered.
Glass raining.
Dom turned.
Fired.
Two shots.
Someone fell.
Someone else returned fire.
Dom pushed Jules behind a car.
"Work fast."
"Can't work without—"
The door exploded.
Not gunfire.
Something else.
Scarlett.
Covered in blood.
Not hers.
Folder in hand.
Rifle on her back.
"Miss me?" she asked.
Tossed Jules the folder.
"Three minutes. Starting now."
She took position.
Beside Dom.
Back to the car.
"Six left," she said.
"Maybe four. Hard to count in fog."
"You enjoy this."
"I survive this."
Dom laughed.
Short.
Bitter.
Surprised.
"Vincent said you'd be different."
"Different how?"
"He said you'd be the one to break the cycle. To win without becoming them."
"And?"
"And I'm starting to think he was right."
Gunfire.
Close.
Too close.
They returned fire.
Scarlett's shots wild.
Suppressing.
Not killing.
Dom's shots precise.
Final.
Two bodies fell.
Then silence.
"Two minutes," Jules called.
"Need more time."
"We don't have it," Scarlett answered.
But she heard it.
Engines.
Multiple.
Closing fast.
Not motorcycles.
SUVs.
Margaret's personal security.
The real professionals.
"We're trapped," Dom said.
"Front and back."
"Then we go up."
Scarlett pointed.
Fire escape.
Opposite side.
Rusted.
Like the one she collapsed.
Risky.
Necessary.
"Jules!"
"Ninety seconds!"
"Thirty!"
He cursed.
Worked faster.
Smoke rose from the folder.
Burning.
Shorting.
The RFID dying.
"Done!" he screamed.
"Move!"
They ran.
Scarlett first.
Covering.
Dom second.
Dragging Jules.
Bullets chased them.
Sparks on metal.
One caught Dom's mechanical arm.
Sparks.
Whirring.
Error codes.
But it held.
They climbed.
Three floors.
Four.
Five.
The roof.
Flat.
Open.
No escape.
Helicopter overhead.
Searchlight.
Blinding.
Margaret's voice.
Amplified.
Cold.
"Scarlett Vance. You have something I want. You have thirty seconds to throw it down. After that, I burn the building. With you inside."
Scarlett looked at Jules.
At the folder.
At Dom.
"She's bluffing," Jules said.
"She's not." Dom checked his arm.
Damaged.
Functional.
Barely.
"I know her. She'd rather destroy evidence than lose it."
"Then we give her something else."
Scarlett walked to the roof's edge.
Looked down.
Forty feet.
Street below.
Concrete.
Death.
Or opportunity.
She turned.
Smiled.
Real this time.
Dangerous.
Alive.
"Margaret!" she shouted.
No amplification.
Just voice.
Carrying.
Confident.
"You want the file? Come get it!"
Silence.
Then the helicopter descended.
Ten feet.
Five.
Close enough to see Margaret's face.
Surgical.
Perfect.
Empty.
Close enough to jump.
Scarlett jumped.
Not at the helicopter.
Past it.
To the neighboring building.
Three feet gap.
Forty feet up.
She made it.
Rolled.
Stood.
Turned.
Saw Dom.
Saw Jules.
Saw Margaret's face.
Shock.
Rage.
Recognition.
Scarlett Vance.
Not a Hollow rat.
Not a casino dealer.
A player.
A threat.
A queen.
"Next time," Scarlett called.
"Bring more men."
She ran.
Into the night.
Into the city.
Into the game that was only beginning.
---
The real Red Ace basement was cold.
Silent.
The screens flickered.
Showing her.
Showing the chase.
Showing Margaret's fury.
Scarlett sat at the red table.
Among the skeletons.
Beside Vincent's father.
Jules worked at a terminal.
Hacking.
Decrypting.
Dom repaired his arm.
Grimacing.
Cursing.
All of them alive.
All of them together.
All of them hunted.
"She knows now," Dom said.
"Knows what?"
"That you have the file. That you know about the trade. That you're not running."
"Good."
"She'll come harder."
"Let her."
Scarlett opened the folder.
Spread the papers.
Names.
Locations.
Photos.
Children.
Women.
Men.
All marked with codes.
Asset numbers.
Prices.
She thought of Claire.
Burning.
Of Asher.
Broken.
Of herself.
Three years invisible.
Three years calculating.
Three years waiting.
"No more," she said.
Quiet.
Final.
"No more what?" Jules asked.
"No more waiting. No more hiding. No more playing their game." She looked up.
At Dom.
At Jules.
At the screens showing Neon Archipelago.
All of it.
Hers to take.
Or burn.
"We end it. Tomorrow. All of it."
"How?"
Scarlett smiled.
The cold one.
The calculating one.
The winner's smile.
"We give them what they fear most."
"Which is?"
"The truth. Every name. Every location. Every account. We broadcast it. Globally. Irrevocably. We burn their empire in the light."
Dom stared at her.
Long.
Hard.
"You'll be a target. Forever."
"I'm already a target."
"They'll kill everyone you love."
Scarlett looked at Jules.
Bruised.
Bleeding.
Loyal.
She looked at Dom.
Broken.
Guarded.
Present.
"I don't love anyone," she said.
The lie tasted like copper.
Like truth.
Like survival.
"Then you're ready," Dom said.
Not believing.
Accepting.
Scarlett stood.
Walked to the screens.
Placed her hand on the glass.
Neon Bay below.
The city breathing.
The game waiting.
"Get some sleep," she said.
"Tomorrow we go to war."
Jules found a cot.
Collapsed.
Dom found a corner.
Watched.
Always watching.
Scarlett stayed standing.
At the red table.
Among the dead.
With the living.
She pulled out the crystal key.
The broken crown.
Held it to the light.
Sharp edges.
Perfect weapon.
Tomorrow everything changed.
Tomorrow the Seven Houses fell.
Or she did.
Either way.
No more hiding.
No more waiting.
Scarlett Vance closed her fist around the key.
Felt it cut her palm.
Felt the blood.
Welcomed it.
"Let them come," she whispered.
And for the first time.
She meant it.