The flight into the Jura Mountains was a descent into myth. The Eurocopter bucked against the Alpine wind, its rotors slicing through the storm like a blade through bone. Below, the ridges were jagged teeth, snow-dusted and merciless, hiding the black arteries of roads that led to nowhere.
Seraphina sat in the cockpit, her eyes fixed on the transponder glowing faintly in her palm. Cell 404. Alessandro’s name pulsed in her mind like a war drum. Every kilometer closer was a kilometer deeper into Julian’s trap, but she no longer cared. The Geneva Protocol had been about secrets. The Jura Breach was about blood.
Behind her, Sloane checked the breaching charges, her scar catching the dim red cabin light. “This isn’t Ankara,” she muttered. “This is a fortress carved into a mountain. You wa
