Chapter 31 - The Traitor's Flight
Claire lay slumped on the freezing metal floor of the Black Hawk helicopter, her entire body paralyzed from the tens of thousands of volts that had surged through her tactical vest. The freezing, torrential rain of the Washington D.C. skyline whipped through the open cabin door, lashing against her bruised face, yet her mind remained terrifyingly lucid. Sitting casually in the leather seat across from her was Preston Beaumont. His bespoke Hollywood charm was entirely gone, replaced by a filthy prison jumpsuit and a face battered purple from her father’s fists. But in his pale-blue eyes danced the manic, desperate light of a coward who had just cheated death. He swirled a crystal glass of stolen champagne, looking down at Claire with the utter contempt of a predator who had reclaimed his escaped prey.
He leaned forward, his breath reeking of alcohol and adrenaline, filling the tense air of the cabin. "Did you really think a few lines of decrypted code could destroy an empire, Claire?" Preston sneered, his voice trembling slightly with lingering terror. "My mother may be rotting in a cell, and your father might be bleeding out in that server room, but the Beaumonts always find new allies." He glanced at the two heavily armed mercenaries guarding the chopper doors—killers dispatched by Director Vance to ensure this dirty transaction was completed. Preston had used Claire, the sole vulnerability of the legendary federal commander Marcus Reed, as his golden ticket out of a cartel death sentence. He was the ultimate parasite, latching onto whatever dark power could keep him breathing.
But Preston severely underestimated the woman bleeding on the floor beneath him. Claire was no longer the fragile socialite who had been dragged across a cream marble ballroom. Beneath the oversized black tactical jacket El Sombra had given her, the paralyzing grip of the electricity was slowly fading. She bit her lip, tasting copper, and forced her breathing into a slow, controlled rhythm. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: Do not fight their strength. Fight their arrogance. Preston was entirely intoxicated by his false victory, completely oblivious to the fact that Claire’s right hand was micro-shifting, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, toward her ankle. Hidden beneath the fabric of her boot was a compact folding combat blade—a final safeguard Marcus had slipped her before they breached Vance’s fortress. The war was far from over; it had simply moved to a far more unforgiving battlefield.
