My husband put his secretary in my seat on my own private jet, then looked me in the eye and told me to remember my place

The blast of frozen mountain air tore through the access tunnel as Marcus kicked open the emergency ventilation hatch. Snow swirled into the dark concrete passage, stinging our faces like shattered glass.

Through the roaring blizzard, fifty yards away across the black-ice tarmac, my Gulfstream sat like a gleaming ivory fortress under the flickering halogen lamps of the runway.

Six heavily armed mercenaries in digital winter camouflage were positioned around the landing gear, sweeping the perimeter with thermal-scoped rifles. Two more were setting explosive charges on the jet’s main cabin door.

"They're going to breach the fuselage to search for the encrypted ledger," Marcus whispered, raising his rifle and resting the barrel against the lip of the concrete tunnel. "Wind speed is thirty-five knots, gusting to forty-five. Normal ballistics are going to drift three inches to the left."

"Make every shot count," I ordered, my fingers numb against the cold metal of my sidearm. "We need the forward avionics hatch open under the nose cone. That’s where the temperature-controlled medical bay is."

Behind us in the bunker, the heavy steel doors groaned. A voice crackled over Marcus's earpiece—Astrid.

"Claire! The inner bulkhead just failed! They’re using plasma torches on the secondary blast door! Father’s vitals are dropping—thirty beats per minute! You have less than eight minutes before cardiac arrest!"

"Marcus, clear the tarmac," I commanded without hesitation. "Now."

Marcus pulled the trigger.

The suppressed crack of his rifle was swallowed by the howling wind. Forty yards away, the mercenary placing the charge on the jet’s landing gear collapsed silently into the snow. Marcus adjusted his aim instantly, firing twice more. Two more silhouettes crumpled before the remaining five realized they were under fire.

"Contact left! Sniper in the drainage culvert!" a voice barked through a megaphone.

Automatic fire erupted instantly, chewing into the concrete lip above our heads. Chunks of frozen stone sprayed across my cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.

"Stay down!" Marcus yelled, leaning out to return fire, dropping a fourth operative who was sprinting for cover behind a snowbank.

I didn't stay down.

While Marcus drew their fire, I dropped to my stomach, sliding through the deep powder on the runway’s perimeter. The arctic cold was agonizing, biting through my silk blouse and tailored trousers like thousands of freezing needles. But my focus was laser-sharp. Every second I delayed was a beat lost from my father’s heart.

I scrambled beneath the nose of the Gulfstream. Just above my head, the latch for the external avionics bay was locked with a four-digit biometric pad.

I reached up, my trembling thumb pressing against the scanner.

*ACCESS DENIED — UNAUTHORIZED USER.*

My stomach plummeted. "Damn it, Arthur!" I hissed. Arthur Sterling had encrypted the compartment with his own credentials.

Above me, heavy bootsteps crunched in the snow. A mercenary rounded the front landing gear, his assault rifle raised.

Our eyes met. He didn't hesitate; his finger tightened on the trigger.

Before he could fire, I lunged forward, sweeping my leg across his boots on the black ice. He lost his footing, his weapon discharging wildly into the fuselage. We collided against the hard frozen tarmac. The sheer impact drove the air from my lungs, but the fury that had carried me through the destruction of Julian’s life exploded to the surface.

I grabbed a loose steel wheel-chock from the ice and slammed it into his helmet visor with all the force in my body.

The glass cracked. He groaned, staggering back. I fired two rounds from my sidearm into his Kevlar vest at point-blank range, driving him down into the snow. He lay motionless.

Panting, clutching my bruised ribs, I turned back to the keypad.

"Arthur Sterling was an arrogant brute," I remembered Astrid saying. Arthur was vain. He believed himself the master architect of the Vance fortune. He would never use a random code; he would use the date he thought he took everything from us.

I punched in: *1 - 0 - 2 - 4.*

The date of my father’s supposed death twelve years ago.

*BEEP.* The green indicator light flashed. The hydraulic latch hissed open.

Inside the climate-controlled compartment sat a brushed-aluminum cryogenic canister, glowing with a soft amber light. Inside rested two ampoules of deep-purple liquid: the synthetic neuro-peptides.

"Claire! I’m out of ammo on the primary mag!" Marcus shouted over the radio, the sound of heavy gunfire echoing across the runway. "Two more hostiles closing on your six!"

I snatched the canister, slammed the hatch shut, and drew my weapon.

"Marcus, fall back to the bunker entrance!" I screamed over the howling storm. "I have the payload!"

As I turned to sprint toward the tunnel, a blinding spotlight illuminated the snow around me. From the roof of the secondary hangar, a sniper had locked onto my position.