My daughter’s ashes were still warm against my chest when my husband finally answered the phone.

The high beams of the pursuing SUVs pierced through the storm like searching knives.

"Range: four hundred meters and closing," Julian said, his voice flat and analytical, the veteran operative replacing the corporate strategist. "They aren't local authorities. No sirens, infrared tracking arrays on the roof racks. It's the Vanguard Directorate's tactical wing."

"They're driving modified Land Rovers," Genevieve remarked, downshifting as we hit a hairpin turn on the slick mountain pass. The tires shrieked, gripping the wet asphalt as water sprayed across the windshield. "They have more torque on these inclines, but we have superior downforce."

"They don't want to spin us," I observed, clutching Maya tightly against my side. Maya had buried her face into my wool coat, trembling but making no sound—a terrifying testament to how conditioned she was to terror. "If Maya is the living link to their patents, they need her intact."

"Which means they'll aim for my tires and the engine block," Julian said. He rolled down his window an inch, the deafening scream of wind and rain flooding the cabin. He primed his weapon. "Genevieve, when I tell you to brake, don't hesitate. Drop three gears and slam the pedal."

"Understood."

Behind us, the lead Land Rover accelerated aggressively, pulling into the oncoming lane to pull alongside us. Through the tinted, rain-streaked glass, I could see the silhouette of a masked man leaning out of the passenger window, raising a pneumatic rifle designed to fire magnetic EMP disablement darts.

"Julian!" I shouted.

"Not yet," Julian muttered, counting the seconds under his breath. "Wait... wait..."

The Land Rover drew parallel, the driver swerving violently toward our front fender to pin us against the sheer rock face of the mountain.

"Now! Brake!" Julian roared.

Genevieve slammed the brake pedal into the floorboards. The Audi’s anti-lock system pulsed violently, throwing us forward against the belts as the car shed fifty miles per hour in a fraction of a second.

The pursuing Land Rover, carrying too much momentum on the slick slope, overshot us instantly. As its rear bumper flashed past our hood, Julian leaned out into the freezing deluge and fired four precise, deafening rounds directly into its rear left tire and suspension strut.

The Land Rover’s tire exploded with a loud bang. On the water-slicked asphalt, the heavy SUV instantly lost traction, fishtailing wildly before rolling twice and smashing violently into a heavy concrete barrier, sparks and shattered glass erupting into the night sky.

"One down," Genevieve breathed, immediately flooring the accelerator again.

"Second one is hanging back," Julian said, wiping rain from his face as he pulled back inside and closed the window. "They learned. They won't try to pull alongside. They're going to ram us from behind to push us off the switchback."

I looked out the back window. The second SUV had turned off its headlights, relying on night vision, its dark bulk surging forward like a predator in the pitch black.

"We can't outrun them all the way to Annecy," I said, my mind racing through the financial dossiers and schematics I had memorized over the last six months of dismantling Vance's holdings. "Julian, the hydroelectric station at Pont-de-Beauvoisin. It’s less than two miles ahead."

Julian glanced back at me, his eyes widening slightly. "The facility was decommissioned last year under the restructuring bankruptcy."

"Exactly," I said, a dangerous calm settling over me. "The main sluice gates operate on an automated flood-release system tied to the regional power grid. And I still hold the administrative digital override keys on my tablet."