Before the bullet, Jonah Mercer could shut down half the Baltimore waterfront with one phone call.

The calm didn't last.

Three days after Marcus was removed from the chessboard, Salvatore Falcone realized his insider was compromised. Desperate and knowing Jonah was actively rebuilding his network, Falcone decided to strike at the heart of the Mercer empire before Jonah could retaliate.

It happened at twilight.

Frank had taken four guards to secure the eastern shipping dock. The estate was operating on a skeletal crew of three security men.

Riley was in the ground-floor kitchen preparing a high-protein dinner for Jonah, humming along to a song playing on her cracked phone, when the house lights suddenly flickered and died.

The entire forty-acre estate plunged into pitch blackness.

A second later, the deep, muffled thump of suppressed gunfire echoed from the front gatehouse.

Riley froze, her heart leaping into her throat. "Jonah..."

She didn't hesitate. She grabbed a heavy steel frying pan from the stove and ran as fast as her sneakers could carry her down the dark corridor toward Jonah’s suite.

Inside the master bedroom, Jonah had already pulled his concealed 9mm Glock from the secret drawer beneath his desk. He was sitting in his wheelchair in the center of the dark room, his face illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the high windows.

Riley burst through the double doors, locking them behind her and sliding the heavy brass security bar into place.

"They cut the power grid," Riley panted, pressing her back against the door. "I heard gunshots near the main driveway."

Jonah looked at her, his dark eyes sharp and focused. "Falcone," he said coldly. "He sent a hit squad to finish what he started on I-95."

He held out his hand. "Come here, Riley. Stand behind me."

"Are you crazy? I'm not hiding behind you while you're in a—"

"Riley!" Jonah roared softly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Get behind me now!"

Before she could move, a violent kick shattered the lock on the balcony doors overlooking the garden. Two men dressed in black tactical gear and wearing night-vision goggles burst into the room, their submachine guns raised.

Jonah reacted with terrifying speed. Even without lower body support, his trunk stability exercises with Riley had paid off. He braced his core against the back of his wheelchair, raised his Glock with both hands, and fired three rapid shots.

The first attacker collapsed instantly, shot through the center of his chest.

The second attacker fired a burst of rounds that ripped through the ceiling and drywall. Jonah rolled his chair back sharply to avoid the line of fire, but as he pivoted, the rear wheel caught the edge of a heavy throw rug.

The chair tipped sideways.

Jonah crashed heavily onto the hard hardwood floor, his gun skittering across the floor out of reach.

"Jonah!" Riley screamed.

The second gunman turned his weapon toward Jonah, aiming down at the paralyzed man on the floor.

Riley didn't think. She acted with the chaotic, unhinged instinct that had defined her entire life. She rushed forward, screaming at the top of her lungs, and swung the heavy cast-iron frying pan with all her strength directly into the side of the gunman’s helmet.

CLANG!

The metallic impact sounded like a church bell ringing in hell.

The gunman staggered sideways, disoriented. Riley didn't stop—she threw her entire body weight into him, tackling him against the glass balcony door. They crashed onto the floor together. The gunman grunted, bringing his heavy gloved hand up and punching Riley hard across the jaw.

Pain exploded in Riley’s vision, but she held on like a bulldog, grabbing his tactical vest and screaming, "Jonah! Now!"

Jonah, crawling across the floor using his massive upper body strength, reached his gun. He dragged himself around, leveled the firearm, and shot the gunman directly through the tactical helmet.

The man went limp.

Riley fell back against the shattered glass, gasping for air, her lip split and bleeding, holding her bruised jaw.

Jonah dragged himself across the floor until he reached her. He grabbed her shoulders, his voice laced with frantic, raw panic—a emotion no man had ever seen in Jonah Mercer.

"Riley! Riley, look at me! Are you hurt? Did he shoot you?"

Riley wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, looking down at Jonah, who was holding her firmly against his chest, sitting on the floor beside her.

"I think... I think I broke your frying pan," she whimpered weakly, trying to laugh before bursting into tears of pure adrenaline release.