Chapter 22 - THE SHADOW OF GENEVAThe calm of our Vermont farm exploded into frantic preparation within twenty minutes.
There was no time to argue with Victoria, nor was there time to question whether she was entirely trustworthy. When I looked into her eyes, I recognized the cold, ruthless pragmatism of someone who knew an unstoppable storm was coming.
"Marcus is already in transit," Victoria told me as I packed a duffel bag inside our bedroom. "He’s been under federal protection in Boston, but I had him activated the moment our satellite sweep picked up the border breach."
Grace stood in the doorway, her hands resting on her pregnant belly, tears silent on her cheeks.
"You swore it was over, Daniel," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You promised me we were done with the blood."
I walked over to her, taking her face in my hands, kissing her forehead with a fierce, desperate affection. "I promised I would protect you, Grace. If I stay here, this house becomes a kill zone. If these people want my blood, I have to lead them away from Vermont."
"And if you don't come back?" she choked out. "What do I tell Lily? What do I tell our son?"
"Tell them their father finished what he started," I said softly.
I pulled out a small silver key from around my neck and placed it in her palm. "If anything happens to me, Marcus has instructions. You take this key to the credit union in Burlington. It holds clean, untraceable funds under your maiden name. You take Lily and leave the country."
"I don't want the money, Daniel! I want you!" she sobbed.
I held her tight against my chest, feeling the quick, frantic heartbeat of our unborn child against my ribs. It took every ounce of my willpower to pull myself away, step out onto the porch, and get into Victoria’s silver SUV.
As we drove down the dirt road toward the local airstrip, the rearview mirror showed Grace standing on the porch holding Lily’s hand, watching my car vanish into the autumn dusk.
An hour later, we were inside a private Gulfstream jet climbing to 35,000 feet, heading across the Atlantic toward Switzerland.
Marcus was already aboard. When he saw me step into the cabin, his rugged face softened into a somber nod.
"Boss," Marcus said, shaking my hand with a grip that could crush stone. "I thought we were done with this madness."
"So did I, Marcus," I replied, sitting across from him in the leather armchair. "Tell me about Geneva."
Victoria pulled up a holographic display on the cabin's center table, projecting a high-resolution 3D schematic of a massive, fortress-like structure embedded into the side of a mountain near Lake Geneva.
"This is The Citadel of St. Moritz," Victoria explained, pointing to the underground levels. "It’s a private, non-sovereign vault facility operated by the Krupp-Bauer Financial Group. It operates completely outside international banking law. The four-billion-dollar sovereign fund is locked in Vault 108."
"Who holds the auction?" I asked, examining the security layouts.
"A man named Henrik Vane," Victoria said. "He was your father's primary international banker—and the man who arranged the hit on your father when he realized your father was going to go public."
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ground together. "Henrik Vane killed my father?"
"Vane ordered the strike using The Syndicate Vector," Victoria confirmed. "And now he’s invited forty of the world’s most powerful criminal financiers to Geneva to bid on the biometric access to Vault 108. He intends to capture you, extract your blood and iris scans live on a private dark-web stream, sell the access, and split the four billion among his shareholders."
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I looked out the jet window into the pitch-black night. The clouds below us looked like a dark, endless ocean.
"He thinks he's luring a sheep to a slaughterhouse," I growled softly, my eyes narrowing into slits of sheer steel. "Let's show Mr. Vane what happens when the sheep brings his own butcher."
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