A ONE-YEAR-OLD GIRL RAN SCREAMING AS HER STEPMOTHER CHASED HER WITH A BASEBALL BAT! Her mother arrived just seconds before disaster struck. But when the little girl opened her tiny fist, the USB inside made her father turn pale—and her stepmother tremble in terror!

Harrison kicked open the passenger door, rolling onto the wet asphalt. Before the mercenaries could acquire a clean target, he pulled the pin on the military smoke canister and hurled it between the vehicles.

A blinding, deafening white phosphorus cloud exploded across the bridge, blinding night-vision optics and turning the roadway into a wall of impenetrable fog.

"Fire! Suppressive fire!" the mercenary commander barked.

Muzzle flashes strobed through the smoke as dozens of rounds tore through the Suburban’s chassis. But Harrison was already moving. He fired two flares into the air; the searing magnesium ignited the diesel leaking from the flatbed truck, creating a wall of roaring fire that separated the mercenaries from the pedestrian walkway.

"Marcus, move!" Harrison roared through the gunfire.

Marcus hauled the Suburban’s rear door open. Clara scooped Lily into her arms, keeping her daughter tucked under her body armor, and sprinted through the blinding smoke toward the maintenance catwalk hanging beneath the bridge.

Bullets pinged off the steel railings. Marcus returned fire with short, controlled bursts, covering their retreat until a heavy caliber round struck his shoulder, throwing him against the railing with a grunt of agony.

"Marcus!" Clara cried out, stopping on the metal grate stairs.

"Keep moving, Mrs. Sterling!" Marcus shouted through gritted teeth, holding his shoulder as he fired his sidearm with his left hand. "Get to the pier level! There’s a coast guard cutter five hundred yards south!"

Clara looked back. Harrison was limping heavily across the bridge deck, drawing the remaining three mercenaries toward the bridge’s eastern suspension cables, firing his rifle until the bolt locked back empty.

A mercenary lunged at Harrison, swinging the stock of his weapon. Harrison blocked the blow with his steel cane, driving the blunt ferrule into the attacker's throat, but a second mercenary tackled him hard onto the concrete.

Harrison’s head struck the curb. Blood poured into his eyes.

The lead operative stood over Harrison, leveling a desert eagle at his skull. "End of the line, billionaire."

Through the smoke, Clara saw it all. She couldn't reach him. The distance was too great. Lily was crying hysterically against her chest.

Then, Clara looked down at the icy river fifty feet below. Attached to the maintenance deck was an emergency river-rescue spool—a high-tensile steel zip-rig used by bridge painters.

"Hold on to Mommy, Lily," Clara whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Hold on as tight as you can."

Clara clipped the rescue harness to her tactical vest, wrapped Lily inside her leather jacket, and pulled out her Kimber 9mm. She aimed across the bridge through the smoke, calculating the distance, wind, and drop.

She didn't aim at the mercenary. She aimed at the diesel tank of the burning flatbed truck directly above them.

*Bang.*

The fuel tank ruptured in a colossal secondary blast. The explosion sent the mercenary flying over the hood of the truck. The bridge shook violently.