A cab driver on the boulevard saw us coming and panicked so hard he jumped the curb.

Wind roared in my ears, but it couldn't drown out the words looping through my skull.

"Big companies have big-company rules. I just have to tough it out a little longer."

"Once I get that offer, we can pool our money and buy a little place together. Just us. Forever."

Mila Pruitt, you idiot.

I told you a hundred times. That manager, Lambert, isn't human.

During the day he had you fetching tea and running errands until three in the morning. At night he had you put on a maid outfit and report to his room for "work discussions."

You looked me in the eye and said that's how big companies train their interns. That everyone goes through it.

I smashed a bottle and screamed at you to quit, and you cried and begged me not to make a scene.

Fine. I backed off.

But now you're sending me a suicide note? Two clients?

Mila Pruitt! You wait right there. I will tear the Grand Hyatt apart with my bare hands tonight if that's what it takes to drag you out of those animals' reach.

The Grand Hyatt Hotel.

By the time we got there, a row of black Mercedes S-Classes lined the entrance.

A few doormen were bent at the waist, holding car doors open for guests. When fifty street bikes came roaring up the drive, every drop of color drained from their faces.

"You... what do you think you're doing! You can't park motorcycles here!"

Before the words left his mouth, my crew rode their bikes straight onto the hotel's red carpet, a dozen of them skidding sideways to barricade the revolving doors.

Four lobby security guards rushed out and barely got their radios up before my people pinned them facedown on the marble floor.

"Suse, penthouse suite, 2801."

Spyder came sprinting over, phone in hand. He'd hacked the hotel's reservation system ten minutes ago.

I took a dozen of my inner circle and crammed into the VIP elevator.

Every second that elevator climbed, Mila's suicide note replayed behind my eyes.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open.

Four bodyguards in black stood posted outside Suite 2801.

All six-one or taller, comms earpieces wedged in, something bulky holstered at each hip.

These weren't hotel security. They were private muscle on the multinational's payroll.

The one in front, shaved head, saw us and raised a palm.

"Private event. Unauthorized—"