The white WNN news van screamed north along the winding, unlit curves of the highway. Samir drove, forearms rigid, the heavy ossuary rattling in the back. Porat was home, and Moussa Rasfanji, Aboulafia’s logistics man, sat in the passenger seat, ruthlessly focused.

“Maintain speed, Samir. I don’t care about the limits,” Rasfanji ordered. “We need to shave forty-five minutes off the travel time to make it by dawn.”

The van hit a slick patch of damp asphalt near a hairpin turn. Samir corrected hard, the tires momentarily slipping as the van fishtailed toward the sheer drop. He wrenched it back.

“This is crazy! Winding roads at this speed—we’ll kill ourselves,” Samir hissed.