The silence of the penthouse had a physical weight to it, pressing against my eardrums like the pressure drop before a storm. I stood frozen in the center of the dark hallway, Michael Reed’s voice lingering in the air like a ghost. “You want me to locate her?”

The wind howling off Lake Michigan lashed freezing rain against the windshield of the stolen Ford pickup truck as I navigated the unpaved, wooded access road near Grand Haven. According to the GPS coordinate on the torn manifest, this was where Alcyone Ventures maintained an isolated, off-grid coastal compound—a private retreat where Viktor Vance stashed his most sensitive assets.

And, as my gut told me, where he had stashed Claire.

I killed the engine a mile back, walking the rest of the way on foot through the freezing mud and dense pine forest. The storm was my cover. By midnight, the sprawling, modern glass-and-steel house came into view, perched dramatically atop a high dune overlooking the churning gray waves of the lake.

There were no guards outside. Viktor had made the fatal mistake of assuming no one could track him here, or perhaps he believed his brother-in-arms had been completely neutralized by the federal raids.

I crept around the side of the house, sliding along the shadow of the wraparound wooden deck. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the living room, I saw her.

Claire sat alone by a crackling stone fireplace, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, staring blankly into the flames. Her skin was pale, bruised with exhaustion, and her hand rested continuously over her stomach.

There was no sign of Viktor. No guards. Just her.

I pulled out a glass-cutter from my tactical kit, quietly scoring a circle around the latch of the side door. With a muffled pop, the glass gave way. I reached inside, unlatched the door, and stepped silently into the warm, quiet room.

Claire didn't turn around immediately. She must have thought the wind had rattled the house.

“I told Evelyn I don't want any tea,” she murmured, her voice sounding small and fragile against the roar of the lake outside.

“It’s not Evelyn,” I said softly.

Claire froze. Slowly, she turned her head. When her eyes locked onto mine standing in the shadows of the living room, she didn't scream. She didn't reach for a weapon.

Instead, her breath hitched, and a single, heavy tear slipped down her cheek.