The seventh car slowed down. For one fragile moment, Evelyn Whitmore thought the driver might actually stop. She dragged her right hand off the rain-soaked pavement, ignoring the agony shooting through her ribs, and lifted it in a desperate attempt to flag the car down.

The quiet peace of the Valtieri estate didn't last as long as they hoped.

Three days after Holloway’s arrest, a secure encrypted alert chimed on the library’s master terminal. Marcus rushed into the room where Dominic and Evelyn were reviewing real estate transfer documents.

“Boss, we’ve got a situation,” Marcus said, his face unusually tight. “One of Holloway’s associates—a crooked municipal judge named Arthur Sterling—just skipped town. Before he left, he accessed an off-site digital locker containing backup leverage files on every major player in the region, including us.”

Dominic stood up instantly, his dark eyes turning cold. “Where is he headed?”

“Private airstrip outside Harrisburg. He’s got a chartered flight booked for the Caymans in less than two hours.”

Evelyn stood up from her chair, her jaw setting with firm determination. “No. He doesn't get to run away with the rest of the evidence. There are patient files in that backup locker—records of people whose deaths were covered up by Holloway's network. If Sterling destroys them, those families will never know the truth.”

Dominic looked at her, weighing the danger. “That airstrip is heavily guarded by private mercenaries hired by Sterling’s syndicate partners. It’s not a hospital board meeting, Evelyn. It’s a war zone.”

“I didn't survive being left for dead on Route 17 to watch the last remaining proof burn in a Caribbean bonfire,” Evelyn said steadily. “I’m coming with you.”

Dominic stared at her for a long, tense second. Then a sharp, resolute nod broke his hesitation.

“Marcus,” Dominic commanded, turning to his enforcer. “Prep the transport. Bring the heavy gear. We’re going to intercept a flight.”

Within twenty minutes, a convoy of three reinforced black SUVs tore out of the Valtieri estate gates, screaming down the interstate toward the private airfield near Harrisburg. Inside the lead vehicle, Evelyn sat in the passenger seat, checking the clip of a compact encrypted data-recovery drive Marcus had handed her.

The rain had started again, drumming a fierce rhythm against the bulletproof glass. But this time, Evelyn wasn't hiding on the shoulder of the road. She was inside the vehicle, moving forward into the storm.

When they arrived at the airfield, the rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the runway lights into long red and white smears. A twin-engine private jet sat idling near the far end of the tarmac, its turbine engines screaming against the wind.

“Sterling is boarding now,” Marcus reported, tapping away at a tactical tablet. “Two armed guards at the loading ramp.”

“Cut the runway lights,” Dominic ordered quietly.

In an instant, the perimeter lights flickered and died, plunging the tarmac into pitch darkness save for the jet’s landing lights cutting through the blinding rain.