Chapter 41 - The Iron Cradle
The rotor wash was a deafening roar that whipped loose ice crystals across my face like a shower of needles. Julianna cowered beside me, her hands clamped over her ears, the wedding ring that had started this entire nightmare long gone, replaced by frostbitten knuckles and trembling fingers. The searchlight didn’t waver. The red laser sights painted two neat, crimson dots over my sternum.
A ladder rolled down through the open bay door of the black transport helicopter. A man in tactical winter gear descended with fluid, mechanical precision, dropping the last six feet into the deep powder. He didn't raise a weapon; he simply raised an arm, signaling toward the interior of the craft.
"Boarding is not optional, Miss Vance," his voice cracked through an external comms speaker, flat and devoid of emotion. "The lowlands are in total grid failure. Every security system from Zurich to Milan is defaulting to lockdown protocols. If you stay on this mountain, you will freeze within forty minutes."
I grabbed Julianna by the arm, hauling her to her feet. Her teeth were chattering violently, her eyes wide with animal panic. "Clara... what did Vivienne mean? What did you turn on?"
"I didn't turn it on," I yelled over the thrum of the blades. "I gave her the keys to the kingdom because she tricked me into cutting the padlock."
We climbed the steel rungs. The moment my boots crossed the threshold into the heated belly of the aircraft, the tactical operator pulled the ladder up and slammed the heavy sliding door shut. The howling wind was instantly muffled, replaced by the deep, rhythmic hum of twin turbine engines.
The cabin was not configured for troop transport. It was a mobile server room. Racks of blinking black blades lined the fuselage, cooled by an intense draft of conditioned air that smelled of ozone and synthetic oil. In the center sat a single swivel chair bolted to the floorboards.
Sitting in that chair was not Vivienne.
It was a woman dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal overcoat, her hair cut into a severe silver bob. On her lap rested an open, ruggedized terminal displaying cascading columns of hexadecimal code. Beside her stood two private security guards armed with suppressed submachine guns.
"Welcome aboard the Sovereign Eye," she said, looking up with cold gray eyes. "I am Director Vance-Keller. Though I suspect Henrik never told you about your father's elder sister."
May you like
Julianna gasped, shrinking back against the bulkhead. "Aunt Beatrice? But you died in the Geneva crash twelve years ago."
Beatrice smiled without warmth. "In this family, Julianna, death is merely an off-balance-sheet restructuring."
