The war room at Vaughn Industries had never lived up to its name until tonight. What had once been a sleek conference room was now command central, filled with laptops, monitors, and the quiet intensity of a dozen specialists working against time.
Grayson sat at the head of the table, his usual composure replaced by barely controlled urgency. The authorization codes were ready—embedded with enough tracking technology to pinpoint a location within seconds of access. But first, they needed to buy time.
"Dr. Ashford's flight landed in Geneva four hours ago," Marcus reported, sliding a tablet across the table. "Private jet, paid for in cash. He's disappeared into the banking district."
"Smart man," Grayson muttered, his fingers drumming against the mahogany surface. "Gets his granddaughter
