Chapter 18 - The Tarmac Ambush
The black SUV tore across the rain-slicked concrete of Stewart International Airport at one hundred and ten miles per hour, its high beams slicing through the swirling sheets of freezing mist.
Thirty minutes remained.
Ahead on the private tarmac, a sleek, white Gulfstream G650 sat idling with its twin turbofan engines screaming, sending waves of heat distorting the freezing autumn air. Parked near the mobile boarding stairs was the medical transport van, its rear doors wide open.
"Julian! Perimeter patrol at two o'clock!" Sarah shouted from the passenger seat, clutching the emergency trauma kit against her chest.
Two private security vehicles—blacked-out Suburbans—swerved aggressively onto the runway, attempting to box us in. Men in tactical black combat gear leaned out of the passenger windows, raising automatic rifles.
"Hold on!" I roared.
Instead of swerving, I slammed the accelerator to the floor. Our reinforced steel push-bar smashed directly into the rear quarter-panel of the lead Suburban. Metal shrieked violently. Glass exploded across the windshield in a blinding diamond spray. The impact spun the enemy vehicle into a wild, uncontrolled three-hundred-and-sixty-degree skid across the frozen tarmac, flipping it onto its roof in a shower of sparks and tearing metal.
I wrenched the wheel hard to the left, pulling the emergency brake.
Our SUV executed a brutal J-turn, slamming to a halt twenty yards from the Gulfstream’s boarding stairs.
I kicked my door open before the vehicle had even stopped rolling, the MPX raised to my shoulder.
"Clarissa!" I bellowed over the deafening roar of the jet engines.
Two private contractors stepped off the stairs, their weapons raising. I didn't hesitate. I squeezed the trigger—two controlled, double-tap bursts that dropped both guards onto the wet asphalt before they could clear their safeties.
I charged up the metal boarding stairs, kicking through the luxury cabin door.
Inside the pressurized cabin, the scene was horrifyingly sterile.
Khloe was strapped to an executive leather seat, her face swollen, her lip bleeding, but her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated fury. She had managed to work one hand free of her zip-ties and was clawing violently at Marcus’s neck. Marcus was pinned against the bulkhead, his hands wrapped around Khloe’s throat, trying to choke her into unconsciousness.
At the far end of the cabin, standing beside a portable stainless-steel infant warming table, stood Clarissa.
She was holding a ten-inch steel aspiration needle, its tip glowing faintly under the cabin lights, positioned directly above Victoria’s exposed, tiny thigh. Victoria was screaming, her face bright red, her tiny fists flailing against the swaddle.
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"Step back, Julian!" Clarissa shouted, her voice strained over the cabin pressure hum. "One twitch of your finger, and I plunge this needle straight through her femoral artery. You’ll watch her bleed out on this carpet before you can cross the aisle!"
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