Von Schlange thought she’d escaped her past. Now Black Nova owns
her—an elite, off-the-books task force where obedience is survival and
failure means death. As their newest assassin, she’s unleashed on
targets tied to Jaxon Ryker, a drug lord buried deep in the Alaskan wilds.
Across the country, Detective Anaya Nazario faces a nightmare of her own. A
synthetic “zombie drug,” deadlier than fentanyl and immune to
Narcan, is ripping through Los Angeles. Her investigation exposes a network of
dirty cops shielding Ryker’s empire—and puts a target squarely on
her back.
Two women on opposite fronts. One war against corruption and cartel power. And
a single truth—every betrayal leaves a body behind.
ONE
THE DEADLY CONTRACT
DARKNESS PRESSED AGAINST HER EYES. The air carried no warmth, only a damp cold that burrowed into her marrow. The metallic taste on her tongue sharpened. Air scraped colder against her throat. Every nerve screamed awake as the chemical fog bled out of her veins. It was easy to fend o! the hazy pull of delirium when it felt like she was sitting in an ice box. Frigid salty air wrapped her in an arctic grip, numbing her body. The sound of the seas never betrayed its location, o!ering no clues as to her whereabouts until the blackout hood was lifted.
Her surroundings winked awake, blurring slowly into focus. Faint traces of soot and aged timber ampli”ed the cabin’s solitude. As her vision sharpened, the “rst thing she saw was the rugged glaciers looming beyond the drafty windows. Snow consumed the landscape, a frozen expanse as thick as packed sugar, burying the world beneath at least twenty inches of wintery silence. At a distance, she could hear how the ocean roiled, a wild, restless beast, while the bitter subzero terrain stretched in stark harmony with the gray horizon.
Groggy, her eyes roamed in search of Zeus, panic setting in, forcing her heart to quicken until she spotted him across the room in a dark corner. Her head felt like a thousand-pound weight pressed down on her skull, each pulse of pain a hammer striking her temples. She found herself passed out on a lounger that looked to be a decade old—at least her kidnappers, or rather, her new boss—had the courtesy to leave her somewhere relatively comfortable. At the sound of her steps, Zeus lifted his head, tail thumping against the rickety wooden !oorboards, though not quite making it to his feet.
It looked like she wasn’t the only one trying to shake herself out of the cocktail she’d been injected with, as Zeus tried to drag himself up. She knelt beside him and massaged his legs, trying to coax circulation back into his limbs. After a few minutes, Zeus soldiered to his feet, the kneading doing the trick. Von exhaled, tension ebbing at the reassuring presence of her loyal companion. She ambled back to the kitchen, taking in her surroundings while Zeus kept time with her steps. A thin “lm of dust coated the kitchen counters and cupboards, telling her that time had been the lonely cabin’s sole friend for a long while.
She rooted around, discovering there were enough dishes for one person, and the fridge had been stocked with salads and fruit. At least her mysterious employer had the decency to respect her food preferences. They even left a bowl of dried dog food and water for Zeus. How thoughtful. She smirked at their attention to detail as she headed to the bedroom—and then she saw it.
Sitting dead center on the bed, the phone was waiting for her.
Sleek, black, and unbranded—just a smooth slab of tech‐ nology with no markings or logos, nothing to indicate who made it. While it appeared to be just another typical highend smartphone, Von knew better. This wasn’t an ordinary device. It was a leash. She picked it up. Lighter than she expected. No buttons, no ports, no removable SIM card. Completely sealed. The kind of hardware designed to be untouchable, tamper-proof. Not to be trusted. The screen stayed dark for a ten-count before flickering to life, awakened by a simple touch. The interface was equal parts minimalist and sterile.
Nothing personal. No apps. No browser. Just a lone notif‐ ication, already there.
“Welcome to Black Nova.”
She “ipped it in her hand, examining it. There wasn’t even a password prompt, #ngerprint, or facial recognition scan. Von wasn’t logging in. She was already in—immediate access like it knew her. Then she remembered where she’d seen one before: Je$erson Pierce. Former Marine-turned-hacker, an asset for the FBI. Asset. The word twisted in her stomach, acidic and biting. She recalled the words—“federal asset”—before her world went black. Right before they took her.
“Silent Circle—” Je$erson had called it.
“A what?” She recalled how her brows had knitted together, confused over the unfamiliar phone. “Never heard of it.”
“Military-grade. Locked down tight. End-to-end encrypted calls and messages.”
“Sounds a bit paranoid,” Von had said.
“For what I do—I gotta be. Safest, most private phone out on the market.
She recognized it now. Its black matte #nish and elegant, no-nonsense style. But it wasn’t hers—it was theirs. A direct line to the people who had dragged her into this. Her permis‐ sion not needed. Her choices, her next movements, her next breath would be dictated, assigned. The second she thought 4 S.Z. ESTAVILLO
this, the phone rang. She stared at it, letting it ring three times before quietly answering.
“You’re awake. Good. Commander Lucian Cain here, in case your memory needs a little reminder,” a calm, authorita‐ tive voice began. “Let’s see if we didn’t make a mistake bringing you into the fold.”
“Where the hell am I?”
“Kodiak Island.”
“Fucking Alaska?”
“Impressed you know your geography—most people don’t know where Kodiak Island is,” Cain said. “Before we o#cially begin, you must complete our test.”
“And if I fail?”
“Don’t think failure’s in your DNA,” he said, then switched to German, “Schlangenfrau.”
She hadn’t intended to assume the title of the Serpent Woman, not before the brutal attack that dragged her to the edge of death. Her guts shredded, body mutilated and left infertile, stripped of the capacity to bear life. A monstrous snake-like crimson keloid scar now etched its path along her abdomen, sewn back up like an object in a sterile lab—e#‐ ciently reconstructed like a modern Frankenstein experiment, an uncanny patchwork that left her hollow.
Von Schlange—Schlangenfrau—the Serpent Woman had become her signature.
Now, it wasn’t just the LAPD and the FBI using it, but Black Nova reciting it in her native tongue. Hearing it uttered from Commander Lucian Cain’s mouth somehow transformed it into a menacing challenge—a dare that promised conse‐ quences too dire to ignore.
The phone chimed with an incoming picture. It was a Hispanic man in his mid-40s with weathered, olive-toned skin and black, silver-tinged hair. He had dark, brooding eyes and a quiet intensity about him that spoke of a past steeped in danger. After studying the image, she returned the phone to her ear for further instructions.
“Elias ‘Eli’ Vega, former DEA agent, worked in South America undercover until he was !ipped by the cartel. Eli is compromised. Working both sides. He hasn’t a clue he’s been exposed,” the commander began. “In the closet, you’ll “nd a lock box with everything you need. You’ll “nd your target at the docks. Make it clean.”
“Then what?”
The phone went dead.
“Hello?—Hello?” Von paced the length of the room, hands knotting in her hair. “Shit.”
After a minute of standing there numb, Zeus leaped to his feet. He barked once at her as if to demand directions on their next move. She walked to the closet, feet heavy, dragging as though wading through quicksand—slow, anxious. Inside, a sleek black metal box awaited her. It had no locking mechanism except for a phone-sized rectangular piece that was mounted on the lid with a small circle at the center. It looked to be a biometric security system. She leaned in and waited, wondering if it was scanning her face. When nothing happened, she placed her index “nger against the circular sensor, and a gentle click sang out as the lid gradually opened.
Inside the black box lay the weapon—a custom-modi”ed SIG Sauer P320. Its vulturine presence was the result of a matte-black “nish and an ergonomic grip, contoured for all hand sizes. The streamlined frame boasted an integrated acces‐ sory rail that o$ered unique options, allowing for laser sights and tactical lights. It had all the marks of a precise, reliable piece, out”tted with a conventional silencer mounted to the barrel. Engineered for silence. Meant for blood.
While Von harbored genuine hate for guns, her father, who 6 S.Z. ESTAVILLO
was not only a world-renowned brain surgeon, wasn’t only an expert in neurology but a collector of the one weapon she despised with all her being. Regardless of his daughter’s protest, her father ensured she and her little sister, Sammy, wouldn’t only know how to shoot but to defend themselves with perfect marksman accuracy. Though Sammy hadn’t been armed at the time, she was attacked by the very men Von had been hunting before fleeing to Brazil to escape the vengeful sins of her past. To this day, her only regret was that her methods of vigilante justice inadvertently placed Sammy in the crosshairs.
Along with the gun, there were cases of bullets and a picture of her target.
She picked up the SIG Sauer P320. It felt cool and light in her hand—a small comfort in a life darkened by violence. Back when she was hunting men who destroyed Sammy’s innocence, every move had been fueled by raw, personal loss. Their brutality had scarred her forever—not only through the near-fatal attack in Wyoming snow that almost ended her life. If not for Zeus throwing himself over her, warming her body, staunching the bleeding, she’d have died right then and there.
That moment changed her.
Since then, she’d killed men who deserved it. For a time, she believed it was over, escaping to Brazil, seeking a fresh start from her former life.
The doctor in her longed to return to the path she’d once chosen, to build something clean, something good—a quiet veterinary clinic, a place of healing. But the past refused to stay buried. Every night, when she closed her eyes, the door appeared in her mind, in her dreams. Mold-green paint curled away from weathered wood, the frame splintering as rustic hinges strained against an unseen force. The handle rattled, trembling with something desperate, something alive. Blood oozed from beneath the door, creeping forward, pooling at her feet. Whatever lurked in the beyond wasn’t !nished with her.
Rage—too intoxicating.
Fate dragged her back in.
The serpent refused to die.
Drawn out of retirement, she returned to her relentless pursuit of vengeance. Brazil had taken more than blood. It had taken Dr. Damião Sequeira—the man who loved her and understood her in ways no one else could. She’d hunted the one behind his murder down and made him pay. More recently, Ryker’s crooked cops had forced her hand again. Twelve kills total under her belt—and none of them weighed on her conscience. Every one of them had been on her terms. But today, her !rst assignment, her test, felt di#erent.
Di#erent in that it was no longer her own calculated vendetta—it was someone else’s order, a directive that used her as a human death tool. How many more lives would she be required to take? It was either comply or face a prison sentence for the countless lives she’d snatched from this earth. Yet one question kept scratching at her moral conviction, clawing at her soul: even if she wasn’t presently behind bars, would she ever truly be free?
She turned the SIG over in her hand, checking the weight, the balance, how it contoured to her !ngers like it was designed just for her. Muscle memory kicking in. While her father was the gun enthusiast, the collector—her aversion didn’t seem to block the familiarity of it. The weapon felt like second nature. Black Nova had stocked the closet with everyday wear in her size: jeans and cotton tops in dark, solid colors with no logo or branding. She spied an all-black baseball cap and pulled it on, the brim shading her gray eyes.
Von took a deep breath before reaching back to shove the gun into her waistband, the cool metal pressing against her spine. She tugged her weatherproof, black tactical soft-shell jacket over it, adjusting it for concealment. Not the most comfortable spot, but she was on Kodiak Island—fucking twenty-degrees-Alaska, with strong coastal winds that mimicked Arctic climates. So, comfort was not a prerequisite for her new job. Readiness, however, was vital.
Wasting no time, Von clicked her tongue, and with a nod at Zeus, they were out the door. The moment they stepped outside, a blast of icy wind rudely slapped their faces, forcing her hand to defend her eyes while Zeus shut his, blinking away snow !urries. Padding beside her, his breath was visible in the frigid air. While his thick coat was built for an average winter, there was nothing ordinary about Alaska, especially with the brutal wind. She squatted to meet his height, adjusting the waterproof vest that hugged his torso, shaking her head as she recalled where she’d found it—folded neatly next to a metal lock box, waiting for them.
It was hard to remain in that unsettled feeling for long when being impressed took over, impressed that this Commander Lucian Cain and his Black Nova operatives hadn’t just provided clothes for her—perfectly sized for her frame, no less—but had even thought ahead to protect her dog from the elements. They were an elite force, operating above even the FBI and CIA, and yet they were conscientious enough to ensure she and Zeus didn’t freeze to death. The duplicitous irony wasn’t lost on her—she was nothing short of an assassin now, whether by choice or not. Yet, here they were, caring about her comfort while sending her out to kill someone.
