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"You really do know what you're doing," I admit, impressed despite myself.

"Told you." He doesn't look up from the instrument panel. "My father believed a man should be able to escape at a moment's notice. Piloting was non-negotiable in my education."

"Your father sounds paranoid."

"My father was a bastard who made enemies in high places," Alex corrects, his voice flat. "But he wasn't wrong about the benefits of a quick exit strategy."

I've known Alex for years, but he rarely mentions his family. The few details I've gathered paint a picture of wealth, power, and dysfunction. The kind that breeds men like him, brilliant and broken in equal measure.

The engines whir to life, the vibration humming through the cabin as Alex communicates with the tower. His voice shiftswhen he speaks to air traffic control—smoother, more refined, the rough edges carefully tucked away. Another role he steps into effortlessly, like changing coats.

“Tower, this is Citation November-Six-Five-Charlie-Delta requesting clearance for takeoff to Martha's Vineyard. VFR flight, altitude four thousand."

The radio crackles with a quick response, granting us clearance. Alex guides the plane to the runway. For a guy who spends ninety percent of his time hunched over keyboards, he pilots the aircraft like it's an extension of himself.

“Ready?" he asks, not looking at me as he lines up for takeoff.

“Do I have a choice?"

His lips quirk. “Not really."

The engines roar as we accelerate down the runway, pressing me back into the leather seat. My stomach drops as the wheels leave the ground, the small plane climbing steeply into the clear blue sky. The airfield shrinks beneath us, becoming a miniature model before disappearing behind us completely.

“See? Piece of cake," Alex says, adjusting our course once we reach cruising altitude.

“Don't get cocky. We still have to land this thing," I mutter, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knowledge that we're suspended thousands of feet in the air in what amounts to a flying soda can.

“Landing's the easy part. You aim down until the plane hits the ground, right?" Alex replies.

“Not funny, asshole.”

"It's what happens after we touch down that worries me."

“Let's go over the plan again," I say, needing to hear it spoken aloud, to find any holes before we're in too deep.

Alex nods. "We land at a private airstrip on the south side of the island. A car will be waiting for us. We drive to the northern dock, arriving a half an hour early to scout the location."

"And if it's a trap?"

"Then we don't approach. We observe from a distance, identify potential hostiles, and adjust accordingly."

"And if Charles Blackwood doesn't pass their authentication?"

Alex's jaw tightens. "We have three layers of documentation—physical ID, digital footprint, and financial trail. If that's not enough, we improvise."

"Improvise," I repeat flatly. "That's your backup plan?"

"Would you prefer I lie and say I've thought of every possible contingency?" He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. "We're flying into unknown territory with minimal intel. Some variables can't be controlled."

He's right, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow. We're risking everything on this mission, not just our lives, but our only lead to Luca. If we fail, Vesper loses her brother forever. And the thought of her face if we return empty-handed is almost worse than not returning at all.

The ocean stretches beneath us, the late afternoon sun glinting off the waves like scattered diamonds. In another life, this might be a pleasure trip—two friends flying to a luxury island getaway. Instead, we're armed to the teeth, chasing ghosts and genetic samples.

I lean back in my seat, watching clouds drift past the windows. "Does it scare you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Being responsible for someone else's happiness?"

"Terrifies me," he admits quietly. "I'm not built for it."

"None of us are," I counter, watching the clouds drift past. "But we're doing it anyway."