Chapter 19 - The Flight to Zurich
The private Gulfstream cut through the sub-zero clouds over the Swiss Alps like a silver knife.
I sat in the leather cabin alone, staring out the window at the jagged, snow-capped peaks glittering under the pale moonlight. My tactical vest was strapped securely beneath my wool overcoat, and the matte-black Sig Sauer rested comfortably in its shoulder holster.
Marcus was back in Connecticut, commanding the estate's security grid alongside Grace, ensuring my children were protected by an impenetrable iron wall.
My instructions to Grace before I boarded the jet had been simple: If I don't call by Friday noon, open the safe, take the children, and disappear.
She hadn't argued. She had simply looked at me with those steady, unyielding dark eyes and said, "Just come back, Evan. The roses need trimming."
At 2:00 AM local time, the jet touched down on a private tarmac outside Zurich.
A sleek, black Mercedes sedan with darkened windows was waiting at the edge of the runway. A man in a tailored charcoal suit stood beside the passenger door, holding a black umbrella against the swirling alpine snow.
He didn't ask for my passport. He didn't ask my name. He simply opened the door as I approached.
"Mr. Viktor has been expecting you, Mr. Whitaker," the driver said in clipped, accented English.
I slid into the back seat, closing the door behind me. The car glided smoothly away from the airfield, winding up the steep, twisting mountain roads toward an isolated, ultra-modern glass villa perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking Lake Zurich.
The villa was a fortress of glass, steel, and minimalist design—a monument to cold, calculating wealth.
The car stopped beneath the grand concrete portico. The driver opened my door, and I stepped out into the freezing Swiss air, my hand resting casually near my shoulder holster.
Two armed guards in tactical gear stood on either side of the massive glass pivot door. They didn't frisk me. They knew that if I wanted them dead, a security pat-down wouldn't stop a bullet.
The heavy glass door swung open automatically.
I stepped inside into a vast, minimalist living room lit only by the ambient glow of a floor-to-ceiling aquarium housing slow-moving exotic fish.
Standing by the edge of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the dark, freezing waters of the lake, was a tall, silver-haired man in an impeccably tailored cashmere turtleneck.
Viktor.
"Welcome to Switzerland, Evan," Viktor said without turning around, swirling a glass of amber scotch in his right hand. "I must admit, when my men reported that you survived the estate siege, I was genuinely impressed."
I walked slowly across the polished concrete floor, stopping ten paces behind him.
"You wasted your time sending your men to Connecticut, Viktor," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the vast, silent room. "And you wasted your time bringing me here."
Viktor finally turned around. He had striking, sharp blue eyes, an unlined face that betrayed his age, and a calm, terrifyingly polite smile.
"Did I?" Viktor raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "You think this is a trap, Evan. You think I brought you across the Atlantic to assassinate you in my living room."
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"Didn't you?"
"My dear man, I am a financier, not a street-level butcher like Moretti," Viktor said, chuckling softly as he walked toward a minimalist marble bar. "Assassinations draw unwanted attention from Interpol and regulatory bodies. I didn't bring you here to kill you, Evan. I brought you here to partner with you."
