Page 72 of The Dark Stranger

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The basement screens lit the room in cold blue light.

We replayed the bridge footage.

Frame by frame.

I leaned forward; elbows braced on the desk.

There she was.

Fighting the wheel.

Gun out the window.

Returning fire.

My jaw tightened — not in anger.

In pride.

“That’s my girl,” I muttered under my breath.

She didn’t fold.

She didn’t freeze.

She fought.

We advanced the footage.

The crash.

The rollover.

I forced myself to watch.

She crawled out bleeding.

Went back for her friend.

Picked up the weapon.

Then—

Hand-to-hand combat.

I watched her move.

Clean. Efficient. Controlled.

That wasn’t street fighting.

That was training.

“She’s precise,” Jace murmured.

“I know.”

She pivoted. Broke a wrist. Dropped a target with a knee strike.

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