THE CONFRONTATION

The private airfield in New Jersey was a desolate stretch of asphalt surrounded by rusting chain-link fences and towering floodlights.

Eleanor parked the SUV a hundred yards out, behind a cluster of abandoned shipping containers. The night air was biting, carrying the smell of jet fuel and wet concrete.

"He's in the hangar," Eleanor whispered, handing me a pair of high-tech binoculars. "His private jet is fueled and ready. He's waiting for Victor's men to give him the all-clear."

I pressed the binoculars to my eyes. Through the open doors of the hangar, I saw him.

Marcus.

He was pacing back and forth, his usually immaculate hair disheveled, his tie loosened. He was on his phone, gesturing frantically. He looked exactly what he was: a cornered rat.

"I'm going in," I said, my voice dead calm.

Eleanor grabbed my arm. "Catherine, wait. I have two ex-military guys on standby. We can just let them handle this. You don't need to look him in the eye."

"Yes, I do," I said, pulling my arm free. "If I don't do this, he'll always be a ghost haunting me. I need to see him terrified."

Before she could argue, I slipped out of the SUV, keeping to the shadows. I bypassed the main entrance, moving through a side door I had spotted through the binoculars. The hangar smelled of oil and stale coffee.

I walked up the metal stairs to the elevated walkway, my footsteps muffled by the hum of the jet's engines. Marcus was standing at a desk, shoving stacks of cash into a briefcase.

"You're not going anywhere, Marcus."

He spun around, his face draining of color. For a second, he looked like a stranger. The charming, kind husband I had loved for three years was gone, replaced by a hollow-eyed, terrified criminal.

"Catherine?" He fumbled for a gun on the desk, his hands trembling. "How did you get out? They said you were dead!"

"They lied." I walked closer, my hands steady at my sides. "Just like you lied to me for three years. Or should I call you Marcus Webb?"

His face twisted into something ugly. A sneer of contempt. "You think you're so clever? You were nothing but a paycheck, Catherine. A pawn. I gave you a beautiful life, and you were too blind to see it."

"A beautiful life?" I laughed, the sound hollow. "You stole everything I had. You were planning to kill me."

"I was going to give you a quick death," he spat. "Victor wanted to drag it out, use you as leverage. I was trying to be merciful."

A cold fury washed over me. I stopped walking, standing directly across the desk from him.

"Where's my money?" I asked quietly.

He blinked. "What?"

"You transferred everything I owned. The house, the joint accounts. My entire life savings. Where is it?"

"I don't have it! Victor does! I'm just the guy on the ground, Catherine. I don't control the money!" He picked up the gun, pointing it at my chest. "Now, back up. I'm getting on that plane. If you try to stop me, I'll shoot you."

I didn't back up. I took a step forward, pressing my chest against the barrel of the gun.

"You're a coward, Marcus. You always have been. You don't have the spine to shoot me."

"Don't test me," he warned, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Did you know?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Did you know who my father was when you married me?"

He hesitated. For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped.

"Yes," he admitted, his voice shaking. "Victor told me. He told me you were the key to destroying Richard Ashford. I was supposed to make you fall in love with me, drain your accounts, and then hand you over to Victor so he could use you as bait to lure your father out."

I closed my eyes for a second. The confirmation of the ultimate betrayal.

"But you didn't fall in love with me," I said, opening my eyes.

"I tolerated you," he sneered. "You were boring. A broken little bird. Do you know how exhausting it was to pretend to care about your surgical residency? To pretend to care about your nightmares?"

I didn't feel pain. I didn't feel heartbroken. I felt a cold, absolute clarity.

"So what happened?" I asked. "Why did you send me to the hotel room?"

"Because Dorian Blackwood was closing in. He was buying up our debt. I needed him dead, and I needed you out of the way. I was going to frame Dorian for your murder, then kill him in a 'standoff' with the police." He laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. "But you just had to play doctor, didn't you? You just had to stitch him up."

I smiled. It was a dangerous, terrifying smile.

"You underestimated me, Marcus. Everyone does."

I lunged.

I didn't go for the gun. I went for the heavy, solid brass desk lamp. I grabbed it by the neck and swung it with all my strength. It connected with his wrist with a sickening crunch. The gun flew from his hand, clattering across the hangar floor.

Marcus screamed, cradling his broken wrist. I didn't give him a chance to recover. I slammed my foot into his knee, sending him crashing to the concrete floor.

I stood over him, the lamp raised, my chest heaving.

"Please!" he begged, his eyes wide with terror. "Catherine, please! I'm sorry! I'll tell you everything!"

"Where is Victor's server?" I demanded.

"Top floor of his building! The gala tomorrow night is a trap! He knows about the infiltration!"

I dropped the lamp. It clattered beside his head.

"I know it's a trap," I whispered. "And I'm walking right into it."

I reached down and grabbed the briefcase full of cash. Then, I leaned over him, staring into his terrified eyes.

"Tell Victor something for me," I said softly.

He nodded frantically.

"Tell him I'm coming. And I'm not the boring little bird anymore."

I turned and walked down the metal stairs, leaving him crying on the floor of the hangar.

As I stepped outside, Eleanor was waiting by the SUV, her gun drawn, looking at me with a mixture of shock and deep, profound respect.

"You broke his wrist," she said.

"He's lucky I didn't break his neck," I replied, tossing the briefcase into the backseat. "Let's go. We have a gala to crash."

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6: THE GALA