We flew back to Como in the thin gray light of early morning.
Webb was secured in the cargo hold, guarded by Khalid and two other men Dante trusted with his life. The branded operatives who'd survived the warehouse were in custody—some with Interpol, some with Dante's people, some left behind for the Zurich police to puzzle over. The fire had been contained before it reached the chemical stores. The news reports called it an industrial accident. The truth was messier.
I sat in the cabin, staring out the window at the Alps passing beneath us, my reflection a ghost in the glass. I hadn't slept. I hadn't eaten. I hadn't processed the fact that Marcus Webb was in chains thirty feet away from me, that Aldric Vane was still sitting in a hospital room in Lausanne, that somewhere out there a net
