The silver clock in the grand hallway struck two in the morning, its chimes echoing mockingly against the cold marble of the Anderson estate.

Inside a sleek, bulletproof black SUV bearing diplomatic plates, Grace sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window in absolute disbelief. The leather seats were softer than any furniture she had ever touched. The cabin smelled of rich coffee and imported cedarwood.

In the backseat sat Michael Anderson, his suit jacket removed, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows as he tapped furiously on a secure military-grade tablet.

"Marcus," Michael said without looking up from his screen. "Where is the GPS tracker on Julian’s Mercedes pinging?"

"Interstate 90, heading northwest toward a private hangar facility near Rockford, sir," Marcus replied from the driver's seat, his eyes locked on the road ahead. "He’s booked a private chartered Gulfstream G650 under a shell corporation. Destination: Zurich, Switzerland."

"He thinks he can stash his stolen offshore accounts in a Swiss bank and disappear," Michael muttered coldly. "He underestimates how small the world becomes when you have unlimited capital."

Grace turned her head from the window, looking back at Michael. "Mr. Anderson... are we chasing him ourselves? Shouldn't we call the FBI?"

"The FBI moves at the speed of bureaucracy, Grace," Michael replied, finally lifting his gaze from the tablet to meet her eyes. "By the time federal agents get a judge to sign off on an international arrest warrant, Julian will be sipping martinis in the Alps. This is a private matter. And Anderson Meridian settles its debts."

He leaned forward, tapping Marcus on the shoulder. "Exit the highway at the next interchange. Take the service road behind the Rockford aviation hangars. We cut him off before he reaches the tarmac."

Twenty minutes later, the heavy black SUV drifted silently onto the gravel perimeter of an isolated private airfield. Through the chain-link fence, a gleaming white-and-gold Gulfstream jet sat idling on the runway, its turbine engines whining with a high-pitched shriek.

Parked fifty yards away near a corrugated steel hangar was a silver Mercedes sedan with a shattered passenger-side window and a dented front bumper—proof of its violent escape from the estate gates earlier that morning.

"Cut the headlights," Marcus whispered, killing the engine and rolling the SUV to a silent stop behind a row of shipping containers.

Michael opened his door and stepped out onto the gravel. Grace hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pushed her door open and followed him.

"Stay behind me," Michael ordered, his voice brooking no argument.

They walked swiftly around the corner of the shipping containers.

Standing on the tarmac near the base of the private jet’s boarding stairs was Julian Vance. He looked nothing like the polished, immaculate corporate executive who smiled beside Michael at shareholder meetings. His expensive Italian suit jacket was stained with grease, his tie was ripped off, and in his right hand, he clutched a heavy black Glock pistol.

Standing beside him was a terrified-looking pilot holding a flight manifest clipboard.

"Hurry up and clear the flight plan!" Julian screamed at the pilot, his voice cracking with paranoid panic. "If that gate opens, we are both dead!"

"Mr. Vance," a cold, commanding voice echoed across the open tarmac.

Julian froze. He whipped around, his eyes going wide with sheer terror as he spotted Michael Anderson walking toward him out of the gray morning mist.

"M-Michael?" Julian stammered, raising the pistol with a shaking hand. "How... how are you alive? The paramedics said..."

"The paramedics said I had two minutes to live," Michael finished for him, stopping thirty feet away. He stood tall, hands casually tucked into his trouser pockets, completely unfazed by the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest. "Unfortunately for you, Julian, you forgot one crucial detail about running a logistics empire."

Julian’s face turned the color of ash. "What... what are you talking about?"

"You forgot that the people who clean your floors, stock your warehouses, and guard your gates are mothers and fathers who will risk everything to protect what they love," Michael said, gesturing casually back toward Grace, who stepped out from behind the SUV.

Julian’s eyes darted to Grace. Recognition flickered across his panicked face. "The... the cleaning lady?"

"Not a cleaning lady anymore, Julian," Michael’s voice dropped into an icy register. "That is my new head of corporate risk assessment. And she has very good aim."

Before Julian could pull the trigger, a blinding set of high-intensity strobe lights flashed on from behind the hangars. Four heavy-duty security vehicles roared onto the tarmac, cutting off Julian’s escape route and trapping the silver Mercedes against the fence.