A pale dawn light filtered through the blinds of Viola's suite as she slipped on fingerless leather gloves and packed her medical kit into a reinforced carry case. The flash drive with Denver's fireproof vault coordinates nestled in an inner pocket of her jacket. Outside, rain-spattered streets of the city lay quiet—before the storm of their journey.
A soft knock sounded at her door. “Viola?" Lester's voice came through. “I'm ready."
She clicked off the bedside lamp and opened the door. He stood in crisp travel attire: a dark overcoat, tailored slacks, his storm-gray eyes steady. IV lines coiled gently at his wrist, tethered to a portable pump Marlowe had configured overnight.
She nodded. “Everything's set. Marlowe's arranged a private jet. We leave in thirty minutes." She stepped aside
