Thirty thousand feet above sea level, Grace Vance toasted legacy with a glass of Dom Pérignon.
The jet was custom. Obscene in its wealth. Gold-leaf floor. Leather everything. Ten guests, each more dangerous than the last—military contractors, ex-presidents of shell nations, biotech moguls. Each held a piece of Cain’s next empire. Each sworn loyal to Grace.
They thought they were at the top of the world.
They hadn’t met the storm brewing below.
On the ground, Alina zipped up a blood-red flight suit.
Nicholas checked the weapons. Camille adjusted the signal jammers.
“Midair hijack?” Nicholas said. “It’s insane.”
“She thinks she’s untouchable,” Alina said, buckling her boots. “We show her the sky is mine now.”
“Parachute or death?” Camille asked.
Alina grinned. “Both, if necessary.”
