The cold rain soaked through my thin coat, turning the dust of the service road into slick mud.

I pressed Leo closer to my chest, his small body shivering under the damp blanket.

Beside him in the double stroller, Toby started to cry, his tiny fists bunching up in the freezing air.

We had been walking for three hours since the shelter turned us away.

Headlights cut through the grey downpour behind us.

A heavy black SUV skidded to a halt on the shoulder, splashing muddy water over my boots.

The driver’s side door flung open.

Rowan stepped out into the rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

He stopped dead when he saw me.

His gaze shifted from my face to the two babies, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Maren?” he whispered.

His voice cracked, stripped of the corporate authority I had seen on the news.

“They told me you died in the clinic,” he said, stepping closer.

“They told you what she wanted you to hear,” I said, my teeth chattering.

I pulled back the blanket to show him Leo’s face.

“Tessa took Clara, Rowan. She left me with the boys and told me if I ever came back, she would kill them.”

Rowan reached out, his hand trembling as he touched Leo’s wet cheek.

“Tessa did this?”

“She paid the doctors,” I said. “She staged the stillbirth records.”

The anger in his grey eyes burned hot, a sudden, terrifying shift from his initial shock.

He grabbed his satellite phone from his pocket and pressed a speed dial.

“Marcus, get the team together,” Rowan said into the receiver.

“I need the old unit at the north hangar of the executive terminal in fifteen minutes.”

He listened for a second, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched.

“No questions, Marcus,” Rowan barked. “Tessa is moving Clara tonight. They are boarding a private medical transport to Zurich.”

He ended the call and opened the rear door of the SUV.

“Get in,” he told me, his tone shifting to the calm, decisive command of his military intelligence days.

“We are getting our daughter back.”