Ji Jingheng received Ross's report in stony silence. The secure line connected his Manhattan office to the hands-free system in the black G-Wagon, now twenty miles from the retreat and pulling into a dusty roadside diner parking lot. Ross's voice was clipped, professional, devoid of apology.
"The location is fortified. Not with tech. With local muscle. The doctor has a security detail. Ex-military or close to it. They were waiting for us. Denied access, implied legal consequences, and presented superior force. We were outnumbered and operating without a clear legal pretext to escalate. We disengaged."
Ji Jingheng stood at his window, the afternoon sun glinting off the angular buildings of Midtown. The news was a fresh, hot coal of failure in his gut. "Superior force," he repeated, the words tasting of gall. His men, some of the best in the private sector, had been turned back by… ranchers.
"It was a coordinated, tactical response," Ross clarified, a hint of professional respect in his tone. "They knew we were coming. They had spotters in the woods. The drone must have tipped them off. The principal—if she was there—was likely moved the moment we triggered the perimeter."
"Was she there?" Ji Jingheng's question was a razor blade.
"Unconfirmed. The main lodge showed minimal activity. There are several outbuildings. We could not get close enough to verify. The security team's primary objective was clearly to prevent that verification."
A red haze of fury began to cloud the edges of Ji Jingheng's vision. She was mocking him. Using hired guns and backwoods tactics to keep him at bay. Treating his pursuit like a nuisance, not a reckoning. The child—his child—was a prize she was guarding with a petty local militia.
"The security team leader," Ji Jingheng said, his voice dangerously calm. "Description."
"Caucasian male, fifties, heavy beard. Answered to 'Mitch.' Claims to run a hunting guide service. Familiar with the terrain and the local law. He's the key. The doctor trusts him."
Ji Jingheng's mind, a supercomputer of strategy and leverage, began recalibrating. A direct assault was off the table; it was messy, public, and she was clearly prepared for it. The local sheriff was an ally. The terrain was an enemy. He needed a new angle. Not force. Pressure.
"Stand by," he instructed Ross. "Do not return to the property. Monitor from a distance. I want to know if anyone leaves, and how. I'll have new instructions shortly."
He ended the call. For a long moment, he stared at the city, not seeing its grandeur, only a maze of obstacles that, like the forest, were protecting her. His initial cold calculation was gone, burned away by a possessive, seething anger. She had stolen something from him. Not just the knowledge of a child, but his agency, his control over the narrative. She had rewritten the rules, and he was playing her game on her turf. Unacceptable.
He pressed the intercom. "Lin. In my office. Now."
When Lin entered, she took in his rigid posture, the white-knuckled grip on the edge of his desk. The air was charged, brittle.
"The ground team was repelled," he stated without preamble. "Local security, organized and armed. She was warned. She's running."
Lin absorbed the setback without flinching. "Do we escalate the team? Bring in more specialized assets?"
"No. She's expecting that. She's dug in, with the high ground and local allies. A siege plays into her hands." He turned, his gray eyes like chips of glacial ice. "We change the battlefield. We don't attack the fortress. We collapse the ground it's built on."
Lin waited, her tablet ready.
"Mitch," he said, the name a curse. "Hunting guide service in Willow Creek. I want everything. His business license, his taxes, his property deeds, his hunting permits. Every client he's ever guided. I want his financials. I want his sister's address in town. I want the make, model, and registration of every vehicle he owns. I want to know if he's ever so much as received a parking ticket."
"Understood. To what end?"
"Leverage. Everyone has a pressure point. Find his. Is his business in debt? Does he have a sick relative? A secret? I will own his life by close of business tomorrow. And then he will become my asset, not hers."
Lin's fingers flew over her tablet. "And the doctor? Eleanor Vance?"
"Her too. But she's smarter. Her fortress is legal and financial. It will take longer. Mitch is the weak link in the local chain. We break it." He began to pace, the energy of his anger converting into a ruthless, focused plan. "Concurrently, we make the outside world inhospitable. I want a discreet, irrevocable purchase of every significant piece of commercial real estate in Willow Creek. The diner, the general store, the gas station. Do it through a mosaic of holding companies. I want the local bank scrutinized. I want environmental surveys suddenly requested on all the land surrounding her retreat. I want to create a slow, squeezing pressure that makes that entire town, that entire county, feel the weight of my displeasure. I want her to feel isolated, even in her sanctuary."
It was economic warfare. A demonstration of power so vast and subtle it would be like the atmosphere slowly turning to poison. The townspeople wouldn't know why their leases weren't being renewed, why new regulations were popping up, why the only buyer for the struggling local businesses was a faceless corporation. But the doctor would know. She would know.
"And Lu Huai herself?" Lin asked.
A cold, mirthless smile touched Ji Jingheng's lips. "We remind her who I am. And what happens to people who steal from me. Draft a message. For her eyes only. Use the back channel Finch will no doubt provide if he values his practice. The message is this: 'You have twenty-four hours to make contact. You will provide your location and submit to a DNA test. If you comply, the child's future is secure. If you do not, I will dismantle every pillar of the life you've built, starting with the people helping you hide. The mountain won't be able to protect you. And neither will your ghost.' Sign it 'J.'"
It was an ultimatum. A brutal, uncompromising demand that reasserted the natural order: he commanded, she obeyed. The fact that she was carrying his child only made her defiance more intolerable. She was not a partner. She was a vessel in rebellion, and he would bring her to heel.
Lin's expression remained neutral, but a flicker of something—disquiet, perhaps—passed through her eyes. "The threat against the child's future could be construed as–"
"It is a statement of fact," he cut her off. "Her actions are endangering the child's stability and inheritance. I am offering a resolution. She is the one choosing conflict. Send the message."
Deep in the Sierra Nevada, the Miller homestead was a revelation in stark survival. It was a single-room log cabin, older and cruder than Eleanor's retreat, perched on the edge of a frozen lake. The inside was dark, cold, and smelled of old woodsmoke and dust. Mitch had a fire going in the stone hearth within minutes, the crackling flames pushing back the deep chill and the deeper shadows.
Exhaustion was a physical weight on all of them. The hike had been brutal, a relentless uphill climb over rocky, snow-dusted terrain. Lu Huai's body screamed in protest, every muscle aching, her lower back a tight knot of pain. She had focused only on putting one foot in front of the other, on the steady, reassuring presence of Eleanor just ahead, on the sound of Sarah's encouraging murmurs to Chloe behind her.
Now, in the dim firelight, as Sarah tucked a sleeping Chloe into a pile of musty blankets on the lone cot, the reality of their situation settled in. They were fugitives in a frozen wilderness. The safe, quiet life she had built was in ashes, and the man who burned it was just getting started.
Eleanor checked her pulse, her blood pressure with a portable kit from her medical bag. "You're holding up," she said, her voice low with concern. "But that's the last hike of that scale. Not in your condition. The next move, if there is one, will be by vehicle. Or not at all."
"There's no 'not at all,'" Lu Huai said, her voice thin but steady. She accepted a tin cup of hot water from Mitch. "He won't stop. You saw the men he sent. He'll send more. Or he'll try something else."
Mitch, who was inspecting the cabin's meager supplies, grunted. "The fella who sent those boys… he's got a particular kind of reach. This ain't about a scandal or a paycheck. This is personal for him." He looked at Lu Huai, his gaze direct. "Who is he to you?"
The cabin fell silent. Sarah stopped fussing with the blankets. Eleanor's hands stilled. The only sound was the spit and crackle of the fire.
Lu Huai looked into the flames. The truth, the whole ugly, complicated truth, felt too heavy to lift. But these people were risking everything for her. They deserved to know what they were facing.
"He's the father," she said, the words leaving her lips for the first time aloud. They hung in the cold air, simple and devastating. "It was one night. A mistake. I never intended to tell him. I never intended for him to find out. He's not a man who… shares. Or loses. He sees the baby as his. As property. And me as the thief who stole it."
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. Eleanor closed her eyes briefly, a look of profound sorrow on her face. Mitch just nodded slowly, as if a terrible puzzle piece had clicked into place.
"A man like that," Mitch said, his voice a low rumble, "when you take what he thinks is his, he doesn't just want it back. He wants to break the hand that took it. You understand that? This ain't about getting you to come home. This is about making sure you never forget who's in charge. Ever again."
A cold deeper than the mountain winter seeped into Lu Huai's bones. She knew Mitch was right. Ji Jingheng's pursuit wasn't about reunion or responsibility. It was about domination. About erasing her defiance, her escape, her very will. The child was the prize, but her submission was the real objective.
At that moment, the satellite phone, which Eleanor had placed on the rough-hewn table, buzzed. Not a call. A text notification, via the encrypted messaging system linked to Finch.
Eleanor picked it up, her face pale in the blue glow of the screen. She read the message. Her breath caught. Without a word, she handed the phone to Lu Huai.
Lu Huai read the words. The cold in her bones turned to ice, then to a white-hot, clarifying fury. The ultimatum. The threats. The arrogant, absolute certainty of his signature: J.
She read it twice. Then she stood up. The fatigue, the fear, the ache—it all burned away, consumed by a rage so pure and fierce it was like a new source of heat in the cabin.
She looked at the faces around her—Eleanor's worry, Sarah's fear, Mitch's grim resolve. These people were in the crosshairs because of her. Because of him.
She walked to the cabin's small, dirty window, looking out at the vast, indifferent blackness of the wilderness and the icy lake. The reflection in the glass showed a woman with shadows under her eyes, her hair tangled from the hike, her body swollen with child. But her eyes… her eyes were the eyes of the woman who had stared down Oscar voters and studio heads. The eyes of the strategist who had built L.H. Capital in secret.
He thought he was sending a threat. He was sending a declaration of war.
And she was finally ready to accept it.
She turned from the window, the satellite phone clenched in her hand. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, but it carried the weight of the mountain.
"Eleanor, I need you to get a message to Alistair Finch. Just one sentence." She took a deep breath, feeling the baby kick, a solid punch of life. "Tell him to reply to his client. Tell him the answer is no."