THE ASHES BENEATH HER VEIL

The twin-engine chartered turboprop banked sharply over the dark, churning waters of Lough Erne. Below, the jagged coastline of Northern Ireland lay cloaked in a suffocating shroud of grey maritime fog, punctuated only by the skeletal silhouettes of ancient pine forests and crumbling stone watchtowers.

Victoria sat in the co-pilot seat, adjusting the tactical headset over her ears. Across from her, Evelyn was methodically checking the magazines of two suppressed submachine guns, her movements practiced, precise, devoid of hesitation.

“The Blackwood Facility was built in the nineteen-sixties as a cold-war radar station,” Evelyn explained over the radio frequency, her voice steady. “Vance Maritime bought the surrounding forestry twenty years ago under the guise of an eco-tourism retreat. The surface is just a restored Victorian hunting lodge. Everything that matters is forty feet beneath the peat moss.”

“How do we get in?” Victoria asked, checking the black tactical vest Evelyn had handed her in Paris. It felt impossibly heavy against her ribs.

“Through the drainage sluice on the southern shoreline,” Evelyn replied, loading a fresh clip into her weapon with a sharp snap. “The facility draws cooling water directly from the lake for their subterranean generators. When the storm hits, the water level rises enough to submerge the perimeter motion sensors.”

She looked up, meeting Victoria’s gaze. “You stay in the utility tunnel near the generator room, Tori. You monitor the camera feeds and control the blast doors. You do not engage the guards.”

“I’m not hiding in a closet while you walk into another ambush,” Victoria said firmly, her jaw set.

“This isn't an argument,” Evelyn snapped, her violet eyes flashing with fierce protectiveness. “You are not a killer, Victoria. Once you pull that trigger, the person you were before the chapel is dead forever. I won't let them take both of us.”

The pilot signaled with his hand: Two minutes to drop zone.

The plane dropped low, skimming five hundred feet above the misty surface of the lake. In the distance, through the rain-streaked windshield, Victoria saw it: the black silhouette of the Victorian lodge perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the water. A single high-voltage perimeter fence surrounded the compound, flanked by two security towers with scanning infrared spotlights.

And docked at the private concrete pier below sat an unmarked, heavily armored coastal cutter, its engines idling, sending dark plumes of diesel smoke into the rain.

“The transport boat is already there,” Victoria whispered, her blood running cold. “They’re moving her early.”

Evelyn unbuckled her harness and moved to the side hatch of the aircraft. She racked the bolt of her submachine gun, her scarred face hardening into stone.

“Tell the pilot to fly over the tree line,” Evelyn ordered. “We aren't using the drainage sluice.”