Then Marcus climbed into the passenger seat, his laptop open on his knees.

I got into the back seat, the smell of leather and gunpowder filling the cabin.

Rowan slammed the gear shift into reverse and backed out of the hangar.

The tires gripped the wet asphalt as we sped away from the private airport.

The city lights were a blur through the rain-streaked windows.

Nobody spoke for the first twenty minutes of the drive.

I stared at the back of Rowan’s head, my mind racing with images of Clara.

Was she warm? Was she being fed?

The thought of Tessa Whitmore holding my baby made my blood run cold.

“I have the security layout,” Marcus said, his screen illuminating the dark interior of the car.

“Show me,” Rowan said, not taking his eyes off the road.

“The medical wing is three levels down,” Marcus said, pointing at a blueprint. “It has its own power grid.”

“Is there a backup generator?” Rowan asked.

“Yes, in the sub-basement,” Marcus replied. “If I can cut the main line, the backup takes five seconds to kick in.”