"Sir, we're only two hours out. We still have eight hours to New York—"
"I don't care about New York. Turn us around. Get me back to the island as fast as this plane can fly."
The pilot hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Yes, sir."
I returned to my seat as the plane banked hard, beginning its long arc back toward Greece. My hands were shaking as I pulled up the island security feeds again.
Still quiet. Guards at their posts. Gaby in the library.
But even as I watched, something changed. One of the perimeter guards—the one stationed at the northern approach—turned his head sharply, looking toward something off-camera. His hand went to his weapon.
Then the feed cut to static.
I switched to another camera. Static.
Another. Static.
One by one, every feed from the island went dark.
I called Kirill. The line rang once, twice—then nothing. Dead air. Not even voicemail.
I tried Gaby's phone. Same result.
I tried the main house line, the security office, every number I had for that island. Nothing. All of it—silent.
I sat in the humming cabin of my private jet, thousands of feet above the Mediterranean, and felt my world collapse.
They were there. Pankratov's men were on my island, and I was hours away.
Gaby. The baby. Everything that mattered.
And I couldn't reach them.
I called Semyon, my voice barely recognizable. "Contact anyone we have in Greece. Military, police, private contractors—I don't care who. Get them to that island now."
"What's happening?"
"The feeds are dead. The phones are dead. He played us, Semyon. The whole thing was a fucking trap, and I walked right into it."
Silence. Then: "I'll make the calls. How far out are you?"
I checked the flight time, feeling the number like a knife in my chest. "Three hours. At least three hours."
Three hours. An eternity. A lifetime.
Enough time for Pankratov's men to do whatever they wanted to my wife and my unborn child.
"Find them," I said. "Find anyone who can get there faster than me. I don't care what it costs."
"I will. Vasily—"
"Just do it."
I ended the call and stared at the blank screens that had shown me her face just minutes ago. The static where her image should be. The silence where her voice should be.
I'd promised to come back. Promised nothing would keep me from her.
And now she was alone, facing God knew what, because I'd been stupid enough to fall for the oldest trick in the book.
