The crying had been going on for eighty-seven minutes when Leah started counting.

The Boeing 777 dipped beneath the Mediterranean clouds, the terracotta rooftops and historic monuments of Rome spreading out under the morning sunlight.

Captain Miller spoke over the internal intercom: "Mr. Vance, Rome Tower has confirmed our emergency priority status. The Italian State Police and INTERPOL tactical units have cordoned off the private hangar at Fiumicino. We’re on final approach."

Leah sat beside Julian, holding Maya’s hand in her left and Noah’s tiny fingers in her right. The baby had stayed fast asleep against her shoulder, calm and breathing steadily. The nightmare in the sky was ending, but the tension in the cabin remained tight as a coiled wire.

The landing gear thumped into place. The aircraft flared, tires smoking against the asphalt of Runway 16 Left, the reverse thrusters roaring as the heavy jet decelerated smoothly.

Instead of taxiing to the passenger terminal, the plane turned toward a secluded perimeter hangar surrounded by six dark blue armored vehicles. Blue flashing lights painted the hangar doors in rhythmic pulses.

"Stay behind Marcus and me until I give the word," Julian instructed Leah.

The jet bridge wasn't deployed; instead, portable airstairs were wheeled up to the forward door. Marcus cracked the door open, his hand on his sidearm, surveying the tarmac.

Standing at the foot of the stairs were four Italian Carabinieri officers with submachine guns at low ready. And standing between them was a tall woman in a black trench coat, her dark hair pulled back in a practical knot, her eyes scanning the aircraft door with an intensity that burned through the morning glare.

"Aunt Celia," Leah whispered.

Beside Celia stood someone else. A woman with a bandage across her temple, wearing an oversized wool cardigan, leaning against a silver vehicle.

Leah’s heart stopped.