The private cabin of the Blackwell corporate jet was a sanctuary of silent, luxury-wrapped tension as it cut through the night sky toward Zurich. At thirty thousand feet, the chaotic roar of the Pacific Coast Highway felt like a lifetime away. But the stakes had only grown higher.
I sat at the polished mahogany workstation, my eyes scanning a complex web of financial flows spread across three different tablets. I had swapped my ruined emerald silk for a sharp, tailored gray power suit that Vivian had rushed to the Ojai safe house before our departure. I looked every bit the high-stakes corporate attorney. But beneath the table, my hand rested protectively against my lower abdomen.
Two heartbeats. One a miracle, one a curse, both currently safe under the watchful eyes of the Hells Angels
