Chapter 25 - The Journey South
Before dawn cracked over the French Alps, a convoy of three nondescript black SUVs departed the villa in Évian, moving south along secondary mountain routes to evade highway toll cameras and orbital surveillance.
Lily sat between Emma and a female tactical medic in the backseat of the center vehicle, listening through noise-canceling headphones to an audio story on an encrypted tablet. Outside the tinted windows, the dramatic peaks of Haute-Savoie gave way to the rolling, rugged foothills of Provence.
Daniel sat in the front passenger seat, monitoring real-time feeds from New York.
“Christian St. Clair boarded a private Gulfstream out of Teterboro two hours ago,” Daniel reported, his eyes glued to the telemetry data. “He left a cleanup squad at the Vance estate to maintain the hostage situation. Margaret and your siblings are still alive, but they are terrified. Victoria apparently had an anxiety collapse, and Margaret has spent the last three hours begging the guards to let her call her country club attorney.”
Emma looked out at the passing cypress trees, her expression hardened like slate. “She still thinks money and social standing can fix this. She spent forty years pretending that cruelty was strength, and now that real power is in the room, she’s pathetic.”
“What hurts Margaret the most,” Daniel said with a grim smirk, “is knowing that the daughter she treated like a second-class citizen holds the key to her survival.”
“I’m not doing this for Margaret,” Emma said coldly. “Or Richard, or Victoria. They sat at that birthday table and watched Lily cry when Margaret told her she wasn't my daughter. They laughed when Victoria’s children opened designer gifts while Lily received nothing. They deserve every second of fear they are feeling right now.”
“Then why are you going, Emma?” Daniel asked quietly, turning in his seat to meet her eyes.
Emma reached over, resting her palm gently on Lily’s knee. “Because Arthur gave his life to protect us. Because Catherine Laurent was murdered by these monsters. And because I will not spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder wondering when the Syndicate will come for my child. This ends today.”
The vehicle rounded a hairpin turn along the limestone cliffs of the Luberon. In the valley below, through the morning haze, the vast, ancient stone walls of Domaine Laurent appeared among thousands of acres of dormant lavender fields.
The ancestral seat of Catherine Laurent rose like a feudal fortress against the jagged French sky—and surrounding its perimeter were several black luxury sedans bearing diplomatic plates.
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St. Clair’s advance team had already arrived.
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