The sun didn't rise over the Alps; it bled. A thin, jagged line of crimson cut through the gray mist, illuminating the landing pad where the helicopter’s rotors were already beginning to churn the freezing air. The sound was a rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat that seemed to count down the seconds I had left in this world.
In Silas Thorne’s world.
I stood at the edge of the concrete pad, Toby’s hand small and warm in mine. He was wearing a heavy fleece jacket Arthur had provided, looking up at the black machine with wide, innocent eyes. He didn't know that this flight was meant to be our escape. He didn't know that the man standing ten feet away, watching us with a face of granite, was the father who was officially letting us go.
"The flight plan is set," Silas said, stepping toward us. Th
