Chapter 5 - Midnight over the Atlantic
The private Gulfstream G650 sliced through the pitch-black sky at 45,000 feet, its jet engines producing a steady, low drone. Inside the pressurized cabin, the lights were dimmed to a dull amber. A digital tactical map spanned the wall monitor, displaying a glowing arc that stretched from Chicago O'Hare directly toward Cointrin Airport in Geneva, Switzerland.
I sat at the mahogany conference table, cleaning the slide of my SIG Sauer P320 with methodical, rhythmic movements. Prescott Hale stood nearby, his arm tightly wrapped in a medical brace where a bullet had grazed his shoulder during the breach at the estate. He had refused to stay behind, insisting on commanding our four-man forward security unit currently occupying the rear cabin.
"The decoy signal is still active," Prescott reported, tapping a tablet displaying our Chicago server feeds. "Dr. Yates’s smartphone is receiving ping-backs from our spoofed server every ninety seconds. He believes you are sitting in your estate office, panicking over the asset transfer documents."
"How much time do we have before he checks the hospital in person?" I asked without looking up, clicking the P320’s barrel back into place.
"Six hours maximum," Prescott said. "He won't wait the full twenty-four. Once his legal team in Zurich prepares the initial filing papers, he’ll want visual confirmation of your signature. When he realizes your estate is empty and your private jet cleared airspace three hours ago, he will execute whatever contingency plan he has."
I racked the slide, chambering a round before setting the weapon down on the polished wood. "Then we need to be inside the Geneva facility before he realizes he's chasing a ghost."
Elena sat across from me, wrapped in a fleece blanket, a warm mug of tea untouched in her hands. Her eyes were fixed on the tactical layout of the St. Jude Medical Research Annex, located six miles outside the city of Geneva in a secluded alpine valley.
"It isn't just a medical annex," Elena said softly, her voice raspy from exhaustion. "That's the public front. The underground facility—the vault Genevieve mentioned in her note—is built into an old Cold War bunker three levels beneath the main research labs. It’s owned by a Swiss holding company called Helvetia Bio-Tech, which is ninety-nine percent owned by Aetherius."
"What's the security infrastructure?" Prescott asked, leaning over the digital blueprint.
"Biometric access control at every elevator shaft," Elena replied, pointing to a central red core on the schematic. "Sub-level three requires dual-key authorization: a high-tier executive retina scan and an encrypted physical security card. The vault itself is reinforced tungsten-steel. If the internal alarm triggers, the entire floor is flooded with Halon gas, suffocating everyone inside within forty-five seconds to protect the proprietary research."
I looked at the blueprint. "Genevieve mentioned a ledger dated 1998 in her note. Why 1998?"
Elena lowered her eyes, her fingers tightening around her tea mug. "1998 was the year our mother, Clara Vance, completed the original genetic sequencing framework for Aetherius. That ledger doesn't just contain the research—it contains the master chemical formulas and the original physical culture samples used to create the synthetic marrow degradation. The physical neutralizer—the cure Jonah and Blythe need—is kept in a cryogenic storage unit right beside that ledger."
"And if Aetherius realizes we're coming?" Prescott pressed.
"They won't just lock the vault," Elena whispered, looking directly into my eyes. "They'll purge it. They have thermal charges wired directly to the cryogenic storage tanks. If they suspect a breach, they will incinerate thirty years of genetic research in ten seconds to prevent it from falling into corporate or federal hands."
I stood up, stepping toward the cabin window. Outside, the endless dark of the Atlantic stretched into infinity. In less than six days, my children's cellular systems would begin to collapse permanently.
"We don't breach with explosives," I said, my voice cold and absolute. "We breach with authority. Prescott, contact our European logistics chief in Paris. Tell him I need high-tier executive credentials for Helvetia Bio-Tech ready the moment our wheels touch down in Switzerland."
"Where are we getting executive credentials on four hours' notice?" Prescott asked, frowning.
"The Chairman of Helvetia Bio-Tech is a man named Baron Viktor Vance," I said, turning back to the table. "Genevieve’s uncle. The man who funded Aetherius from the very beginning."
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I picked up my phone, opening an encrypted file stored deep within my personal vault—a file I had compiled five years ago when Aetherius first attempted their corporate takeover.
"Viktor Vance lives in a private villa on the shores of Lake Geneva," I continued. "We aren't going to the lab first. We’re going to his house."
