I carried our six-week-old daughter into divorce court

Madison saw the photograph. Her face went pale, but instead of trembling, she slowly stood up, placed Chloe into the portable crib behind the reinforced sofa, and walked straight over to me.

"They think I'm the weak link," Madison whispered, her voice shaking not with terror, but with an inferno of rage. "They thought I was just Daniel’s pathetic sister-in-law who could be intimidated into silence. In Manhattan, they threatened me. In St. Moritz, they chased us. And now they're aiming rifles through our windows?"

"Madison, we need to extract you immediately," Vance intervened, reaching for his satellite radio. "I can get a Marine detachment from the Embassy to escort you and Chloe to the airfield—"

"No," Madison snapped, cutting him off with a ferocity that made even Vance pause. "If Rachel goes to the Hofburg alone, Julian will kill her the moment she enters that private box. He expects Rachel to be a desperate mother with no support. He expects me to be cowering in a basement. We don't run."

I looked at my younger sister. For years, she had lived under the shadow of my terrible marriage, watching Daniel belittle me, feeling helpless as the Sterlings systematically crushed our spirits. But right now, standing in that cold Viennese apartment, she was every bit our father’s daughter.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

"Julian’s sniper is stationed across the canal, in the clock tower of the old textile warehouse," Madison pointed out the window. "I saw the reflection of the scope when I went to warm Chloe’s milk. He’s waiting for someone to leave through the front gates."

Vance immediately moved to the window, using a prism mirror to peer around the heavy velvet drapes. "She's right. Elevation eighty meters, distance two hundred. Standard overwatch position for a Black Iris hit team."

"Let them watch," I said, a plan forming in the dark recesses of my mind. "Vance, can your tech team broadcast the contents of my father’s titanium drive to the federal servers in Washington and Interpol’s headquarters in The Hague simultaneously?"

"Yes," Vance replied. "It takes a twelve-minute upload cycle. But the encryption requires a local terminal with a high-bandwidth diplomatic uplink. The only terminal fast enough within ten miles is inside the U.S. Ambassador’s private suite at the Hofburg Palace."

"Then we go to the gala," I declared. "Madison, you and Vance take the sniper out from behind, secure the perimeter, and guard Chloe in the embassy suite. I will walk into Box Four with an empty drive, look Julian Sterling in the eye, and keep his attention fixed on me until the ledger is broadcast to every law enforcement agency on the planet."

"Rachel, that’s suicide," Vance said, stepping close, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder. His gaze was intense, protective, his breathing ragged. "Julian will execute you the second he realizes the drive is a fake."

"He won't kill me until he confirms the files," I looked directly into Vance's eyes, feeling the warmth of his presence, the unspoken bond that had grown between us through every bullet and betrayal. "And that gives you twelve minutes. Do you trust me, Caleb?"

It was the first time I had ever called him by his first name.