Aria had exactly two hours of sleep in the last forty-eight hours, and she was currently surviving on a dangerous cocktail of caffeine, spite, and sheer adrenaline.
The doors of Damien's private Gulfstream G650 unsealed with a soft, pressurized hiss.
The crisp, freezing morning air of the French countryside instantly flooded the opulent cabin. It didn't smell like New York exhaust. It smelled like wet earth, pine, and impending doom.
"Stay close," Damien murmured, his hand resting firmly on the small of Aria's back as he guided her down the private jet's stairs.
The Gulfstream had touched down at the VIP Exclusive Paris Terminal—a secluded, guarded airstrip reserved for global elites and diplomats who preferred to avoid the paparazzi.
Waiting for them on the wet, rain-slicked tarmac was a fleet of four matte-black Mercedes G-Wagons. Standing at rigid attention around the vehicles were a dozen armed private military contractors, dressed in dark tactical gear.
