The heavy rear metal door of Leto slammed shut, locking behind Nora with a flat, final metallic click. The alleyway was cold, slick with a fine drizzle that turned the greasy pavement into a mirror for the flickering amber sodium lights above.

The Maybach tore through the waterfront traffic, its powerful engine roaring as Roman pushed the speedometer past ninety, weaving between delivery trucks and civilian sedans with terrifying precision.

Nora sat in the passenger seat, her fingers flying across her encrypted laptop as she hacked directly into the security cameras surrounding St. Jude’s Recovery Center.

“I’m inside their local network,” Nora said rapidly, her eyes scanning the scrolling data streams. “They’ve cut the landline communications, but the auxiliary fiber-optic routers are still transmitting through the medical wing.”

“Can you override the door locks?” Roman asked, his eyes locked on the road ahead as he took a sharp, screeching turn onto the north ridge highway.

“Working on it,” she typed furiously. “Vance’s men are using a localized frequency jammer. They’re trying to isolate the facility so no one can call local police.”

“Local police wouldn't have jurisdiction anyway,” Roman muttered grimly. “This is a private war now.”

Twenty minutes later, the iron gates of St. Jude’s loomed ahead. The facility’s security booth was empty, the glass shattered. Two black SUVs sat parked haphazardly on the front lawn, their doors hanging open.

Roman killed the engine a hundred yards down the road, letting the car coast silently into the shadow of a row of towering pine trees.

“Stay behind me,” Roman instructed, drawing his Sig Sauer and checking the chamber.