Chapter 22 - Shadows on the Tarmac
Three weeks passed in a blur of forensic audits, federal hearings, and paranoid vigilance. Boyd had placed twenty-four-hour surveillance outside our cottage in Rhode Island, but the silence from the remaining Dre loyalists was deafening. It was as though the entire world was holding its breath, waiting for the plane to touch down on European soil.
When the wheels of Swiss International Air Flight 19 crossed the snow-dusted runway of Geneva Airport, the sky was a sheet of pale, crystalline silver.
I held Maya against my chest in a fleece carrier, her warmth grounding me against the bone-deep chill of the Alpine winter. Julian carried our leather duffels, his posture rigid, his gaze constantly sweeping the concourse. Despite his tailored coat and polished demeanor, I could feel the coiled tension in him; beneath the lawyer was a man who had pulled me from burning wreckage and stood between me and gunfire.
As we exited through the VIP customs terminal, a tall man in a dark charcoal overcoat and leather gloves stepped forward. He held a discreet silver card bearing the embossed rose-and-iron-gate crest.
"Mrs. Vance. Mr. Mercer," the man said in flawless, accented English, dipping his head respectfully. "My name is Henri. Madame Dre has been expecting you. Please, this way."
"Where is she?" Julian asked, stepping halfway in front of me, his voice sharp and unyielding. "The letter specified the vaults beneath Lake Geneva."
"Madame is waiting at the family residence in Caux, overlooking Montreux," Henri replied smoothly. "The vaults require verification protocols that can only be initiated from her private terminal. You are safe, Mr. Mercer. You have the word of House Claire."
"House Claire?" I echoed, stepping beside Julian. "The letter was signed Eleanor Dre."
Henri offered a faint, melancholy smile. "Before she was forced into marriage with Arthur Dre, your mother was Eleanor Claire of the Vaud valley. The family that built the lakeside banks before the Dres ever set foot in New York. If you will allow me?"
He gestured toward a reinforced black Maybach idling beneath the terminal overhang. Inside, heated leather seats and tinted privacy glass isolated us from the brisk morning wind.
As Henri pulled out onto the highway skirting the shimmering expanse of Lake Geneva, Julian checked his phone. "Satellite uplink is active. Boyd has our coordinates pinned through Interpol’s Swiss liaison."
"Do you trust him?" I whispered, gazing out the window as the snow-capped teeth of the Dents du Midi mountains rose majestically against the horizon.
Julian took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. "I trust what I can see. And right now, I see that whoever sent Henri had the resources to wipe our tracks the moment we cleared immigration. If they wanted us dead, Elena, we wouldn’t be in a heated car driving toward the Alps."
May you like
Yet, as we climbed higher into the mountain switchbacks, my heart hammered against my ribs. In the rearview mirror, three bends below us on the serpentine road, a lone silver SUV mirrored our ascent, never closing the distance, but never falling behind.
***
