The heavy iron gates of the estate didn't just close behind us; they sealed the rest of San Francisco out. Through the tinted, reinforced windshield of the SUV, I watched the courtyard security team move with the fluid, silent precision I paid them millions to maintain. No shouting. No frantic waving. Just weapons raised, perimeters scanned, and positions locked.
I threw the vehicle into park right outside the private medical wing, the engine cutting out with a low, heavy hiss.
The backseat was already a scene of controlled chaos. Chloe was on her knees in the cramped space, her fingers buried in the fabric of Beverly's blood-soaked hoodie, applying a steady, unrelenting pressure to the girl's abdomen. Her face was pale, dusted with the white plaster of the destroyed café, but her hands were entirely steady.
"Get the gurney! Now!" Chloe's voice cut through the cabin the second I threw the rear doors open.
