Chapter 39 - The Flight Manifest to Zurich
"We need passports," I said, my mind racing through logistics with cold, ruthless speed. "We have no identification, no travel documents, and the moment our names enter the TSA database at Logan Airport, the Massachusetts State Police will flag us for questioning about Anthony's death."
"We don't go through Logan," Isabella said, wiping her nose with her sleeve. She reached into her handbag, which she had clutched like a lifeline through the entire ordeal, and pulled out a small, metallic leather pouch. "And we don't need TSA."
She opened the pouch and laid three passports on the center console.
I picked them up. They weren't fake IDs printed in a basement. They were genuine, biometric diplomatic passports issued by the Republic of Malta—the preferred golden-visa jurisdiction for European tax shelters and offshore private banking.
One bore Isabella’s photo under an alias.
The other two had photos of Khloe and me—taken from our corporate headshots from the architecture firm two years ago.
"Anthony prepared these," Isabella said, avoiding my glare. "He was going to use them to take Khloe and Nathan out of the country after he framed you for the hit-and-run in Boston. He had the whole extraction corridor set up. A private jet is chartered at a small municipal field in Teterboro, New Jersey. It’s on standby under the name of the Vance Foundation."
Khloe grabbed her passport, staring at her own face next to the name *Elena Mercier*.
"Is the plane still there?" Khloe asked, her voice lethal in its intensity.
"It’s scheduled to depart at 9:00 AM for Geneva," Isabella nodded. "Anthony paid the flight crew in advance via an escrow account in the Cayman Islands. They don't know who we are. They only know that three passengers with Vance Foundation credentials and an infant are clearing customs through private handling."
"What about Nathan?" I asked, looking back at the sleeping baby. "If we take him into Switzerland, we’re walking directly into Catherine’s territory. She knows Anthony is dead by now. She knows the line went silent."
"She knows Anthony failed," Khloe corrected, turning to look at me with eyes that burned like molten silver. "She thinks I'm broken. She thinks I'm weeping in a Boston emergency room, clutching one baby, terrified and helpless. She doesn't know we have Anthony's phone. She doesn't know we have these passports. And she certainly doesn't expect me to walk through the front door of her clinic in Zurich."
"Khloe, this isn't a legal dispute," I warned, reaching out to touch her icy hand. "Catherine Vance has enough money to buy private security forces, local police chiefs, and entire medical boards. If we set foot on that property, we are outside the protection of any law."
"She has my daughter, Marcus," Khloe said, her voice dropping to a terrifying, steady whisper that brooked no argument. "I don't care if she has an army. If she touches a single hair on that baby's head, I will burn that clinic to the ground with her inside it."
I looked down at the satellite phone on the dashboard.
The screen blinked. A new text message arrived from an unlisted number:
*PILOT CONFIRMED. FLIGHT VNC-902 READY FOR BOARDING AT TETERBORO RUNWAY 4. PASSENGER MANIFEST LOCKED. DO NOT DELAY.*
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I slammed the Defender into gear.
"We have two hours to get to New Jersey," I said, spinning the wheels out of the muddy storage bay and onto Route 93 South. "Hold onto the baby."
