Chapter 9 - The Airfield Ultimatum
The tactical vehicle roared through the muddy mountain roads, its heavy-duty tires throwing up sheets of water and gravel as it climbed toward the secondary extraction ridge. Inside the climate-controlled cabin, the air was thick with tension. Emma lay resting with her head in Claire’s lap, her breathing slightly steadier thanks to a cold compress Claire had improvised from a bottled water and a spare cloth.
Vincent drove with one hand, his piercing blue-gray eyes locked on the winding road ahead, while his other hand rested near the gear shift, ready for anything.
Suddenly, the dashboard radio flickered and crackled loudly, overriding the encrypted police scanner channels. Sophia Reynolds' smooth, sophisticated voice filled the cabin, broadcasted on an open frequency that echoed off the interior panels.
"Vincent, darling, I hope you're enjoying the scenic tour of the mountains," Sophia's voice purred through the speakers, dripping with fake affection and chilling malice. "By the time you and your precious little family reach the airfield, my private jet will already be airborne over Lake Michigan."
Claire glared at the radio speakers, her jaw tightening. She reached out, as if to smash the dashboard, but Vincent beat her to it, slamming his fist onto the console and cutting the audio feed instantly.
"Don't listen to her," Vincent muttered, his voice cold as ice. "She's trying to bait us into making a mistake."
"She has the master servers, Vincent," Claire said, her voice sharp and urgent. "If she escapes to Europe with those drives, the Moretti name won't just be ruined—every asset, every account, every safehouse we've ever used will be exposed to the highest bidder. You won't just lose your empire; you'll spend the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary."
"Let her take the money," Vincent replied without turning his head, his voice dropping into a fierce, protective growl. "She can take every cent in the accounts. But she crossed a line when she put my daughter in the hospital."
They crested the ridge moments later. Sitting on the concrete helipad was Vincent’s matte-black twin-engine helicopter, its rotor blades spinning slowly, slicing through the heavy mist. Marcus, his chief pilot, stood near the door waving them forward.
"Boss! We're cleared for immediate takeoff," Marcus shouted over the roar of the turbine engines as Vincent pulled the vehicle to a screeching halt beside the aircraft.
Vincent jumped out first, running around to open the passenger door. He carefully lifted Emma into his arms, sheltering her from the rotor wash, while Claire climbed in right behind them.
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As Vincent secured the cabin door and prepared to take the co-pilot seat to direct the flight toward the downtown medical center first, the helicopter's internal tracking monitor suddenly beeped frantically.
On the digital screen, a red warning prompt flashed across the map, indicating that the private airfield downtown where Sophia’s jet was parked had just initiated an emergency lockdown—triggered remotely by a secondary bomb timer set to detonate in exactly five minutes.
