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“I’m bringing her home,” I tell my daughter.

Viktor ends the call before Ivy can answer. Good. I need both hands free and every thought clear.

A black sedan cuts out of a side street and positions itself between us and the van.

“Escort vehicle,” Luka says.

“I see it.”

The rear window lowers.

I raise my weapon before the shooter leans out.

The first shot cracks through the windshield. Safety glass blooms white across the passenger side. Luka doesn’t duck. He drives straight through the blast pattern while I fire twice through the damaged glass. The sedan jerks, swerves, then corrects.

Not enough.

I fire again.

The rear tire blows. The sedan fishtails violently, sideswipes a parked truck, and spins across the road. Luka veers around it without lifting his foot from the gas.

Roman is back on the line before I can call him.

“One escort down,” he says.

“You saw?”

“I’m watching city cameras. Two more vehicles moving near Whitaker. My men are closing from the south.”

“Where’s Enzo?”

“With me.”

A savage sound nearly leaves me. “Why?”

“He knows the routes. He knows her fallback points. He says if she reaches the airfield, she’ll have a plane waiting.”

“Then he stays alive until Maggie is safe.”

“That was my plan.”

The van cuts left toward a road lined with warehouses and storage lots. Traffic thins. That’s worse. Fewer civilians means Isabella’s men can become more aggressive.

Luka feels it too. “They’re leading us out.”

“They’re going to the airfield.”

“They know we know,” he says.

“Yes.”

He glances at me once. “Then this gets worse before it ends.”

The van’s rear doors rattle as if there is movement inside.

Maggie.

I lean forward, every muscle in my body locked. For a split second, I think of the child inside her. Our child. Too small for the world to know yet already claimed by enemies who think pain is currency.