Chapter 2 The Wrong Daughter

Amelia POV

The driver dropped me off at an unremarkable building wedged between a dry cleaner and a pawn shop.

I pushed through the unmarked door and found Alex in his examination room, cleaning surgical instruments. He looked up with that familiar, easy smile. "Well, well, the infamous Dancer gracing my humble establishment. You made good time."

"Cut the pleasantries," I snapped, scanning the room. "Where is he?"

Alex's expression shifted, apologetic now. "That's what I was trying to tell you on the phone. He's gone. Left immediately after I finished patching him up."

"You waited until after he left to call me?"

"Hey, I had to stabilize him first. M-99 nanobullets aren't exactly routine trauma cases." Alex raised his hands defensively. "Professional ethics and all that."

I knew Alex's history—former medical specialist for Round Table before he went freelance five years ago. Smart move, really. The organization paid well, but independence paid better when you were skilled enough to treat the kind of people who couldn't exactly walk into a hospital with wounds.

"I need surveillance footage," I demanded.

Alex shook his head. "You know better than that. I don't ask questions, don't have cameras. That's why people like him—and you—come to me."

"How did he pay?"

"Cash. American dollars." Alex's eyebrows rose slightly. "Not coins."

Now that was something. Coin was the universal currency in our world—the only way to hire assassins, buy specialized equipment, or secure services like Alex's. You couldn't purchase coins through legitimate channels; they had to be earned through missions or services rendered. I had a few in my possession specifically for situations like this, knowing that while Round Table's assassination contracts were banned in the U.S., our other operations continued as usual.

If my target hadn't used coins, it meant he likely wasn't part of the killer network at all.

I pulled out a single coin and flipped it to Alex. "I want his biological signature—electrical patterns, DNA samples, neural pathway scans."

Alex caught the coin with practiced ease. "Now we're talking. Give me a moment."

A few minutes later, he handed me a data chip. I activated my encrypted tablet and began running the biometric data through the Global Assassin database. The search algorithms worked through thousands of profiles, but....

No matches found.

Exactly what I'd suspected. My thief wasn't a professional killer; he was likely government—probably federal, given the sophistication of his infiltration. Which meant this was going to be considerably more complicated than tracking down a rogue operative.

"Interesting patient you had there," Alex commented casually while watching me work. "Not every day I see someone wearing Kevlar X-type body armor."

I looked up sharply. "Kevlar X-type?"

This armor wasn't available to civilians or even most military units. That kind of gear narrowed my search parameters considerably.

"He said anything while you were working on him?"

"Not much. Professional type—took the pain without complaint." Alex paused. "He'll need follow-up treatment, though. Those nanobots don't just disappear. Without proper medical attention, he'll start losing motor function within a week."

I knew that. It gave me a timeline and a vulnerability to exploit.

But now came the question of operational base. I couldn't exactly set up surveillance from a hotel without drawing attention. There was really only one option, much as I detested it.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I'd hoped never to use again.

The phone rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "What do you want? I thought you said you'd never call this number again."

"I'm in Everdark City," I said without preamble. "Come pick me up."

A long pause. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean? Can't a daughter stay at her own home?"

I rattled off the clinic's address and hung up before he could respond.

Twenty minutes later, I slid into the passenger seat of a black Mercedes. Robert Coltman gripped the steering wheel like he was trying to strangle it.

"What the hell are you doing wandering around downtown?" he demanded before I'd even closed the door. "And why are you here at all?"

"Hold on," I said, pulling out my phone. "Let me send a quick message first."

I opened the encrypted chat channel where several Round Table senior operatives maintained constant contact. My fingers moved quickly across the screen: [Anyone have intel on Kevlar X-type body armor distribution? Need sourcing information ASAP.]

Robert was still ranting about my "attitude problem" and the "questionable education" I'd received in Russia when I finally looked up.

"Just need to crash at home for a few days," I said flatly.

"This is about Grace, isn't it?" Robert's voice took on that patronizing tone I remembered so well. "I know you two had your differences, but—"

"Stop. I don't give a damn about Grace. I need a place to stay temporarily. Pretend I don't exist if it makes you feel better."

I'm not here for family reunions. I just need a cover identity and a base of operations, nothing more.

But Robert couldn't leave it alone. "She's been doing well, you know. Made honor roll last semester, and she's—"

I turned to face him fully, letting him see the kind of look that had made grown men wet themselves in dark alleys. "Say one more word about your precious Grace, and I'll make sure she never speaks again."

Robert's face went pale, and his mouth snapped shut. Good. He was finally remembering what I had been through.

The memories came unbidden—fragments of a childhood that explained everything about who I'd become.

Born with a rare blood type that made me valuable to certain medical research facilities. Sold by corrupt hospital staff to a private research institution in the Philippines. But I'd barely arrived before civil war erupted, and the researchers abandoned me to survive in a war-torn hospital.

Six years old when American soldiers came to evacuate their medical personnel. I'd befriended one of them—a young man who promised to take me somewhere safe. But our helicopter was shot down during extraction. I survived the crash, spent days floating in the ocean before a Round Table patrol boat found me.

Professor, the organization's leader, saw potential in a child who'd survived what would have killed most adults. He sent me to Nocturne for training.

At fourteen, I'd traced my origins and returned to claim my birthright, only to find that the Coltmans had been raising the wrong daughter all along. Grace and I had been switched at birth—she'd been sent to live the life that should have been mine, while I'd been sold into hell. Their affection for Grace ran deeper than blood—deeper than any connection they could forge with a biological child they'd never known.

So I'd returned to Russia, taken the name Colt, and become the youngest regional leader in Round Table history.

As for Grace? I'd seen through her manipulative nature three years ago. She was nothing but a paper tiger who'd grown vicious when her position was threatened. The mere thought of seeing her again made me sick to my stomach...