My mother called my six-year-old daughter “a burden” at Christmas dinner, so I took her presents and walked out—but by New Year’s, Grandma was begging for a second chance.

A sharp, electronic beep echoed from inside the case.

Richter’s eyes widened in instant panic. "Back! It's a thermite charge!"

"No, it's not," I shouted into the gale, holding the briefcase firmly. "It's an automated cryptographic transmission! The moment I unlocked this case, the entire unencrypted ledger, every Swiss bank routing number, and Julian's complete confession were uploaded directly to the international database of the Financial Action Task Force!"

"You lying bitch!" Julian roared, lunging forward with bare hands.

*Crack!*

A sniper rifle round echoed from the grain silos above, hitting the dock wood right at Julian's feet and sending wooden splinters flying into the air.

"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!" Campbell’s voice boomed through megaphones from the arriving police cruisers, sirens suddenly bathing the entire snow-covered dock in blinding flashes of red, white, and blue. Tactical boats surged through the harbor water, searchlights pinning the yacht in crosshairs of brilliant white light.

Richter cursed in German and reached inside his coat, but a second sniper round took him in the shoulder, spinning him backward onto the deck of the yacht.

"Julian! Get down!" I yelled, but Julian was consumed by psychotic fury.

He didn't run for the yacht. He didn't drop to his knees. He drew a hidden snub-nosed revolver from the tactical vest of the rogue guard beside him and pointed it straight at my chest.

"If I don't get that fortune," Julian screamed over the shrieking wind, his face contorted in madness, "then Arthur's precious little girl dies right here!"

*BANG.*

A gunshot shattered the night air.

Pain didn't hit me. Instead, a heavy body slammed into me from the side, knocking me violently off my feet and onto the icy wooden planks. The briefcase flew from my grip, skidding toward the edge of the dock.

I rolled over, gasping for breath, the snow stinging my eyes.

Lying across me was not Campbell, and it was not a federal agent.

It was Eleanor.

Her prison jumpsuit was torn, soaked in freezing slush and blood. Her chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow gasps where the bullet had torn through her sternum.

"Mom...?" The word tore from my throat before I could stop it.

Eleanor looked up at me, her manicured facade gone, her arrogance dead, her eyes wide with a horrifying, desperate clarity. With trembling, bloody fingers, she reached up and grabbed the lapel of my coat.

"Emma..." she choked out, blood spilling past her lips. "Julian... he didn't... he didn't just target the trust..."

Behind us, Julian’s maniacal laughter cut through the wailing sirens as he backed toward the open waters of the bay, pulling a dark remote detonator from his coat.