Chapter 1: The Chair at the Table

At four o'clock in the morning, the heavy, rain-slicked runway of Boeing Field in South Seattle was illuminated by the yellow glow of perimeter lights.

My private Gulfstream G650 sat on the tarmac, its twin engines whining loudly as they warmed up for the ten-hour transatlantic flight to Nice, France.

I stood at the bottom of the airstrip stairs, wearing my heavy wool coat, looking out at the dark, wet skyline of the city I had ruled for a decade.

Beside me stood Viktor, carrying two aluminum weapons cases containing short-barrel rifles, body armor, and tactical gear. Eight of my most trusted, battle-tested men were already on board the aircraft, securing the equipment and reviewing the satellite maps of the villa on the French Riviera.

Marcus’s black Escalade pulled up onto the tarmac, stopping twenty feet from the jet.

The rear door opened, and Marcus stepped out, followed by Elena and Amara.

Elena was holding her daughter in her arms, wrapped in a heavy pink blanket to protect her from the cold morning air and drizzle.

I walked over to the car.

Amara rubbed her sleepy brown eyes, looking out from the folds of the blanket. When she saw me standing there in my black coat, a bright, cheerful smile instantly broke across her face.

“Mister!” she called out, her small voice cutting through the roar of the jet engines.

I crouched down on the wet tarmac, bringing my eyes level with hers once more.

“Hello, little one,” I said softly.

“Are you going on a airplane?” Amara asked, pointing her tiny finger toward the silver jet.

“Yes,” I nodded. “I have to go take care of some important business far away.”

Amara reached into her small coat pocket and pulled out a tiny, crumpled piece of paper. She extended her little hand, pressing the paper into my palm.

“This is for you,” she whispered confidentially. “So you don't get lonely on the plane.”

I opened my hand.

It was a child’s drawing—drawn with bright yellow and blue crayons on a piece of kitchen scrap paper. It showed a big black table, a tall man sitting in a chair, and a little girl sitting right beside him, both of them wearing big, happy smiles.

At the top of the page, written in shaky, child-like letters, was a single word her mother had helped her write:

FRIENDS.

I stared at the paper for a long moment, feeling a warm, powerful sensation crack through the thick layer of ice that had encased my heart for two terrifying years.

I carefully folded the paper, placing it into the interior breast pocket of my suit jacket, right beside my heart.

I looked up at Elena. “Keep her safe.”

“Bring your daughter home, Mr. Hale,” Elena whispered, her eyes shining with fierce conviction. “Bring her home.”

I nodded once.

I turned around, walked up the stairs of the private jet, and stepped into the cabin. The heavy door swung closed behind me, sealing out the cold Seattle rain.

I walked down the aisle, taking my seat near the window as the jet began taxiing toward the main runway.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers lightly brushing the edge of the crayon drawing.

For two years, I had believed that my life ended on a rainy night in Idaho. I had believed that power, money, and revenge were the only things left to live for.

But as the jet’s engines roared, pushing us back into our seats as we lifted off into the dark, cloudy sky heading toward France, I knew the truth.