Tessa looked back up the stairs. The vans were gone. But the woman with the serpent tattoo was standing at the top, arms crossed, patient as a spider.

“The number,” Leo said. “Say it now.”

“Let them wake it,” she said into her collar. “Then we take everything.”

“No,” Tessa said. “We run to Witch Mountain. Not away.”

Now, as they scrambled up a granite slope slick with moss, Tessa understood. The suits weren't government. They weren't police. They were collectors. And the key wasn't for a lock—it was for the mountain itself.

Leo, eight, looked back.