Chapter 6 - Blood on the Snow
Steven didn't wait to be trapped like an animal. He kicked open the rear passenger door, using the heavy armored door as a shield, and fired three double-taps into the darkness.
The sharp cracks of his weapon cut through the howl of the storm. A mercenary went down with a muffled cry into the snowbank. The second attacker retreated behind the snowplow, pinned down by Julian’s guards who had managed to crawl out of the lead vehicle, heavily armed and impeccably trained.
Within ninety seconds, the confrontation was over. The Swiss alpine police sirens wailed in the distance, blue lights reflecting off the sheer rock faces of the mountain pass.
Steven holstered his gun and leaned back inside, his hands immediately checking my shoulders, my face, my stomach. His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling slightly—not from adrenaline, but from pure, unadulterated terror that something might have happened to me.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice thick with raw emotion. "Valerie, tell me you’re okay."
"I'm fine," I breathed, placing my trembling hand over his cheek. "We're both fine, Steven. You kept us safe."
For a split second, the professional boundary between us vanished. Steven leaned his forehead against mine, his breath warm in the freezing mountain air. "I will burn this entire country to the ground before I let Richard Vance lay a hand on you."
Julian walked up to our open door, dusting snow off his tailored cashmere coat as calmly as if he had just stepped out of an opera house. He glanced at Steven, then at me, noting our proximity with an arched, knowing eyebrow.
"The driver of the plow talked before he lost consciousness," Julian said, his tone icy. "Richard paid them two million francs through an encrypted escrow account in Zurich to ensure our convoy never reached the city. He is preparing to board a private helicopter from the roof of the Dolder Grand to cross into non-extradition airspace in thirty minutes."
I sat up straight, smoothing down my coat, the fire in my blood burning hotter than the mountain cold.
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"Call the Swiss police," I said, my voice steady and deadly calm. "Tell them to ground that helicopter. Richard Vance had his toast in Boston. Now I’m going to serve him his final drink."
***
