Doctors gave my six-year-old twins ten days to live, and for the first time, every dollar, weapon, and ounce of power attached to my name meant absolutely nothing.

"We have to get to the roof," I said, disconnecting the interface while leaving Marcus's override protocol running in the background.

"The roof?!" Franklin Yates gasped, his eyes wide with horror. "There are forty security guards between here and the helipad! The executive elevators require Arthur’s personal keycode!"

"Then it's a good thing we brought his brother," I said coldly, grabbing Yates by his collar and pulling him toward the interior service stairs.

I turned to Elena. "Stay here in the sub-basement with the kids. Keep the door locked from the inside. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes..."

Elena caught my hand, her grip fiercely strong. "You bring that enzyme back down, Lawson Mercer. Do you hear me? Your wife didn't die so you could lose tonight."

I looked into her eyes—the eyes of the woman who had spent two years hiding in the shadows just to keep a promise to my late wife.

"I'm coming back," I said.

Leaving two guards with Elena to secure the basement, I shoved Franklin Yates into the dark stairwell and began the twelve-floor climb.

Every step was a battle against time. My lungs burned, my muscles screamed from exhaustion, but the image of Blythe asking if her brother could come with her to the grave drove me forward like a battering ram.

We reached the tenth floor without drawing fire—Marcus had looped the interior security camera feeds, creating false empty loops on the guard consoles.

At the eleventh floor landing, the heavy fire door suddenly burst open.

A tactical contractor in full body armor stepped out, raising an automatic shotgun.

I didn't pause. I fired three rounds through the soft armor lining at his throat before he could pull the trigger. He collapsed backward onto the concrete stairs.

I grabbed his shotgun, threw his sidearm to the floor, and dragged Franklin Yates past his body.

"We're out of time!" Marcus shouted in my earpiece. "The chopper on the roof just spun up its rotors! They're preparing for departure in ninety seconds!"

We burst through the heavy roof exit door into the freezing, rain-swept night.

The noise was deafening.

A massive, twin-engine Sikorsky helicopter sat on the wet concrete pad, its giant main rotors whipping the wind and rain into a blinding hurricane. Two armed guards stood near the rear cargo ramp, holding submachine guns.

And standing beside the open side door of the aircraft, dressed in a tailored wool overcoat, was a man holding a heavy, insulated silver cryogenic transport case.

Arthur Yates.

He looked identical to his brother Franklin—same sharp, arrogant nose, same cold, calculating eyes.

As I stepped onto the wet asphalt, Arthur turned. Through the driving rain and spinning rotor blades, our eyes met.