She was holding her phone to her ear, her face pale and tight with rage.

Then the gates swung shut, blocking her from view.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Callahan?” the marshal asked from the front passenger seat.

He turned around, showing his badge.

His name tag read *Agent Harris*.

“I’m fine,” I said, placing my hand over my belly.

The baby kicked, a small, reassuring flutter against my palm.

“My husband—the man posing as Tyler—and Chloe Vance are at the Westwood penthouse,” I said.

“We have a team en route there now,” Harris said.

He looked down at a rugged tablet on his lap.

“But they’ve got a head start. We just intercepted a wire transfer from a Callahan shell corporation in the Cayman Islands.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Forty-two million dollars,” Harris said.

“They’re draining the primary offshore accounts.”

The SUV merged onto the Interstate 405.

The midday traffic was thick, a sea of glittering windshields under the hazy Los Angeles sun.

My phone buzzed again.

It was a text from an unknown number, but I knew the style.