My best friend since childhood, the girl I'd grown up glued to, told me she'd landed a job at a major corporation. Said once she was in, she'd pull me along for the ride and we'd finally live the good life.

I laughed and wished her luck. Cold as ice.

Because I knew the truth. By day she was a disposable intern worked to the bone for pennies. By night she was a "personal assistant" in a maid outfit, keeping her supervisor company in his hotel room.

A corporate punching bag. A sacrificial lamb.

But she'd just grin that stupid grin and brag about how the manager praised her again today, how she'd be getting a full-time offer any day now.

I kicked a bottle into the wall so hard it shattered, screaming at her to quit. I'd take care of her myself.

She just stared at me with red-rimmed eyes, begging.

"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."

I hated that the corporate machine had brainwashed her so completely. But I gritted my teeth and let her go, let her learn the hard way.

Then one night, while I was at the roller rink with a hundred of my crew, sparklers flashing, music pounding, her suicide note hit my phone.

"Suse, I really can't learn the rules of big corporations anymore. Tonight the manager... he's sending two of his biggest clients to my room too..."

...

I stared at the last line on the screen until my vision blurred.

The iced tea in my hand crumpled inward, plastic buckling under my grip.

The entire rink went silent.

The DJ was still blasting, bass thumping off the walls, but every single one of those hundred-plus people turned to look at me.

I shoved the phone into my pocket. Stood up. Jammed two fingers between my teeth.

"FWEET!"

One sharp whistle.

In under ten seconds, every last one of them closed in around me.

"Suse! What's going on!"

I kicked over the plastic table in front of me and snatched up the half-length steel pipe stashed under one of its legs.

"Get on your bikes. You're with me."

"Where?"

"The Grand Hyatt."

I jammed the pipe into the back of my waistband and swung a leg over my custom street bike with the aftermarket exhaust.

One twist of the throttle and the engine screamed.

Behind me, fifty street bikes fired up at once.

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—"

I didn't let him finish. I swung the steel pipe in a full arc and cracked it across his brow bone.

Crack!

Blood sprayed across the hallway's cream wallpaper.

The bald one screamed, hands flying to his face, and dropped straight onto the carpet.

The remaining three froze for half a second.

Brick and Anvil each dropped one. Spyder swung a fire extinguisher into the last one and put him on his back.

Four bodyguards. Seven seconds.

I stood in front of Suite 2801.

Through the heavy solid-wood door, music blasted so loud it rattled my teeth, and men's laughter rolled underneath it, loose and filthy.

I lifted my foot.

Bang! The lock warped on impact, and both double doors slammed open wide.

The stench hit me first: imported liquor, cigar smoke, and beneath it all, the sour chemical reek of whatever they'd drugged her with.

I spotted Mila instantly.

She was tied to the armrest of a couch, her jacket ripped half off, blouse buttons scattered across the floor.

There was blood at the corner of her mouth.

A short, heavyset man had her jaw clamped in one hand, tipping a wine glass into her mouth.

Liquor ran down her throat and pooled along her collarbone.

Her eyes were already glazed over.

Across from her, two balding middle-aged men sprawled on the leather sofa with their collars hanging open.

One had his legs crossed, phone up, recording. The other had a cigar clenched between his teeth, face creased with a grin so wide it folded his skin in half.

"Lambert, your little intern's got some fight in her. College girls always do. Once the drugs kick in, she'll be begging louder than a bitch in heat."

Manager Zane Lambert stood off to the side, swirling a glass of red wine, smiling.

"Don't worry, Mr. Chambers. I guarantee you'll be satisfied tonight."

"Girls like this are a dime a dozen at our company. Use her up and we'll just rotate in a fresh batch."

My grip tightened around the pipe. My knuckles popped one by one.

The next second, I kicked the coffee table in the center of the living room clean off its legs.

It snapped in two. Bottles and glasses shattered across the floor.

CRASH!

The heavyset man flinched so hard he released Mila's jaw, and the wine glass slipped from his hand and burst against the tile.

Three strides. I closed the distance and brought the pipe down on the hand holding the phone, precise and unforgiving.

Two fingers broke. The phone launched across the room and the screen shattered on impact.

"AHHH! MY HAND!!"

The bald man clutched his hand and screamed, rolling off the sofa onto the floor.

I grabbed the other one by the collar, the one still nursing his cigar, and hauled him up off the couch.

The ashtray on the remains of the coffee table was packed with ash and cigar stubs.

I clamped one hand on his jaw, prying it open, and shoved the entire ashtray against his mouth.

"Eat."

"Mmph! MMPH!"

Ash choked him until his eyes rolled back, mouth stuffed with grit and spit.

Zane dropped his wine glass and stumbled back three steps.

"Susannah Dickerson, you street trash! You're out of your goddamn mind! Do you have any idea where you are?!"

He jabbed a finger at my face.

"You're a dropout, a nobody, the bottom of the food chain! Do you have any clue who Mr. Chambers is?! You touch a single hair on his head—"

I turned my back on him, walked to Mila, and cut the ties around her wrists.

The ligature marks had already drawn blood.

I shrugged off my leather jacket and wrapped it around her whole body.

She was shaking from head to toe.

Her eyes fluttered open, hazy, unfocused, and the instant she recognized my face, the tears spilled over.

"Suse, run… you have to run…"

She grabbed my sleeve.

"You can't fight them… they'll sue you…"

"They have lawyers, they have connections. We can't afford this…"

I crouched in front of her and wiped the liquor and blood from her face with the back of my hand.

"Mila, who the hell said anything about fighting?"

"I'm here to take you home. That's it."

Zane had already pulled his phone from his pocket.

"Mr. Perry, there's a situation on the top floor. Some thugs causing trouble. Bring people up, now!"

He hung up, tilted his head, and looked at me with a smirk.

"Susannah, you really think you can roll in here with a couple of punk-ass kids and run wild on my turf?"

"Just you wait."

Less than five minutes later, a stream of people filed into the suite.

Leading them was a man in his early fifties, hair slicked back, wearing a tailored suit.

Lucas Perry. Vice President of the company's Greater American division.

Behind him trailed two attorneys carrying briefcases and over thirty corporate security guards in matching black uniforms with earpieces.

My dozen or so guys looked like amateurs next to this crew. The gap was obvious at a glance.

Lucas scanned the wreckage on the floor, then glanced at the client rolling around clutching his hand. He let out a short snort through his nose.

Then he looked at me.

"You?"

He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands.

"Young girl like you. Should be in school. Instead you drag a pack of street rats into a five-star hotel to smash things up."

"You know what that's called? Breaking and entering. Aggravated assault. Organized criminal violence."

He turned to the two attorneys beside him.

"Did you get it?"

One of them nodded and tapped the body camera on his chest.

"Recording since we walked in, Mr. Perry."

Lucas strolled to the sofa and sat down, crossing one leg over the other.

His attorney opened a briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers.

"This is the training agreement and non-disclosure clause that Ms. Pruitt signed upon employment."

The lawyer pushed his glasses up and held the documents out in front of me.

"Per Article Seven of the agreement, should the second party unilaterally breach the contract during the training period, the second party shall compensate the first party for training costs, client-resource losses, trade-secret exposure, and other comprehensive damages totaling…"

"Fifty million dollars."

Fifty million. Mila wouldn't earn that in a lifetime.

The lawyer kept going.

"Furthermore, tonight's gathering was a standard corporate hospitality event arranged by the company."

"Ms. Pruitt attended voluntarily. Here is the event consent form bearing her personal signature."

The lawyer let out a cold laugh.

"The young lady simply had too much to drink. We have continuous hotel surveillance footage to prove it."

"You, on the other hand, led a group of civilians to force your way into a private suite, leaving two prominent businessmen with serious injuries."

"I trust I don't need to spell out the consequences for you."

The signature on that consent form was one Mila had been forced to write.

I could see it for exactly what it was. A trap they'd built in advance.

Zane sidled over, straightening the collar I'd yanked crooked, and stood there with his hands on his hips, grinning at me.

"Susannah, this is how the big leagues work."

"Broke little nobodies are supposed to sit there and take it. Who told you to play hero?"

"You're a punk from a roller rink who can't scrape together five grand, and you think you can go toe-to-toe with our corporation?"

Mila was behind me, shaking from head to toe.

She tore free of my grip and dropped to her knees in front of Lucas Perry with a hard thud.

"Mr. Perry… please… let Suse go…"

She slammed her forehead against the floor, over and over, each impact loud enough to hear.

"I signed the agreement myself, it has nothing to do with her… I'll go, I'll go entertain the clients… just please don't go after her…"