Chapter 7
The flashbulbs were blinding. A wall of photographers lined the red carpet leading into Lincoln Center.
A white stretch limousine pulled up. The crowd cheered. Jackson Floyd stepped out, looking dashing in a tuxedo. He turned and offered his hand to Davida.
Davida emerged. She was wearing a pink dress that looked vaguely familiar to the fashion press-a modified version of an old Sunny design. It pulled awkwardly at the waist. She smiled, waving weakly, playing the role of the fragile genius perfectly.
"Is it true?" a reporter shouted. "Are you Sunny?"
Davida giggled and hid her face in Jackson's shoulder. Jackson smiled at the cameras. "We have a big announcement inside."
They began to walk up the carpet.
Then, the atmosphere changed.
A low hum of an engine cut through the noise. A matte black car, sleek and predatory, rolled to a stop right behind the white limo. It didn't have license plates. It had a small flag on the hood with a crest no one recognized-The Surgeon's mark.
Security started to move forward to block it, but the lead guard saw the driver and froze. He signaled his men to stand down.
The back door opened.
First, a red-soled stiletto hit the red carpet. Then, a leg exposed by a high slit.
Cristina stepped out.
The silence was instantaneous.
She wore gold. The fabric clung to her body like a second skin, shimmering under the lights. The back was completely open, draped only by the finest sheer mesh. Her black bob was sharp as a knife. Her lips were painted a deep, blood red.
She didn't look like the shy, dowdy wife Jackson had hidden away. She looked like a queen.
"Who is that?" someone whispered.
"Is that... is that the ex-wife?"
Jackson turned around. His jaw literally dropped. He stared at her, blinking, as if trying to process the image.
Davida's smile vanished. Her nails dug into Jackson's arm.
Cristina began to walk. She didn't look at the cameras. She looked straight ahead, her eyes locked on the entrance.
The photographers woke up. The sound of shutters clicking became a roar, louder than it had been for Davida.
Click. Click. Click.
She walked right up to where Jackson and Davida were standing, blocking the path.
Jackson found his voice. "Tina? What are you doing here?"
He stepped toward her, trying to use his height to intimidate her. "You need to leave. Now. You're embarrassing yourself."
Cristina stopped. She turned her head slowly to look at him. She didn't blink.
"I have an invitation," she said. Her voice was low, but steady.
"You're trespassing," Davida hissed. "Security!"
A large man in a headset stepped forward, reaching for Cristina's arm.
Before he could touch her, two men in dark suits materialized from the crowd. They didn't draw weapons, but they moved with a lethal fluidity. They stepped between Cristina and the guard. The guard looked at their eyes and backed away, terrified.
Jackson saw the men. He recognized the type. Professional. Dangerous.
"Who are you with?" Jackson asked, his voice shaking slightly.
Cristina smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "I'm with the future, Jackson. And you're in my way."
She brushed past him. The gold fabric of her dress swished against his tuxedo pants.
She walked alone up the rest of the carpet, the lights reflecting off her like armor.
Jackson watched her go, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach.
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