Tori thought she could leave four children with me while she flew to Japan, but she forgot one important detail: I had a flight of my own that afternoon, and I wasn't canceling it this time.

"There's been a mistake," Vance snapped, his composed facade showing its first hairline fracture. "I am traveling with my associate. We have business in Lisbon—"

"Your associate may proceed through the line," the officer replied, not budging an inch. The two tactical officers moved forward smoothly, effectively boxing Vance against the plastic partition of the queue. "You, senhor, must accompany us to the secondary inspection office."

Vance’s head snapped toward me, his pale eyes burning with venom. "You did this," he hissed under his breath.

I looked at him calmly, adjusting the collar of my trench coat. "I told you, Julian. Lisbon isn't New Hampshire. Duarte Silva still remembers how to file an emergency maritime injunction against foreign corporate raiders."

"This buys you an hour, Myrna!" Vance whispered furiously as the Portuguese officers took him by the elbows, turning him away from the general flow of passengers. "One hour! My men in Manchester already have the perimeter of your house covered! Make the call or your son loses everything!"

"We'll see," I said softly.

I turned my back on him and slipped into the crowd. I bypassed the standard customs lines, flashing the EU residency card Arthur and I had maintained for twenty-five years from our property in Sintra. The border agent stamped my document without a second glance, sliding it back across the glass counter.

Within three minutes, I had cleared the terminal and stepped out into the bright, blinding glare of the Portuguese morning.

The air smelled of sea salt, roasted espresso, and exhaust. Taxis were lined up in a yellow ribbon along the curb.

A sleek, vintage Mercedes sedan pulled up directly in front of the crosswalk. The rear door swung open, and an elderly man with a silver mustache and a tailored linen suit leaned forward from the backseat.