Chapter 17 - The Tarmac Ambush
The rain turned into sleet as Marcus drove his SUV west on Interstate 88, hitting ninety miles an hour with his hidden emergency strobes flashing behind the grille.
In the passenger seat, my father dialed the direct emergency line for the Director of the Illinois State Police.
"Jack, this is Arthur Vance," Dad said into the speakerphone, his voice steady as iron. "I need an immediate federal interdiction on Hangar 4 at DuPage Airport. Target is Julian Sterling. Suspect is armed, dangerous, and fleeing the jurisdiction under an active felony murder warrant connected to the 2014 Cinder case."
*“Arthur, I can get two patrol units there in twenty minutes,”* the state police commander replied over the radio. *“The FAA has already cleared his flight plan for Zurich. If he taxies onto the runway, my guys can’t legally shoot down a civilian aircraft.”*
"Then don't let him taxi," Marcus said, cutting in as he wrenched the steering wheel, taking the airport access road exit on two wheels.
We crested the hill overlooking the private executive airfield.
Through the sleet-streaked windshield, I saw Hangar 4.
The massive corrugated steel doors were wide open. Inside, illuminated by blinding halogen floodlights, sat a sleek white Gulfstream G550 jet, its twin engines already whining, spitting heat shimmer into the freezing night air.
Near the portable boarding stairs, two men in black trench coats were hurriedly loading aluminum flight cases into the cargo bay.
Standing beneath the wing, supervising the loading, was Julian Sterling.
Even from fifty yards away, I recognized him from the 2014 surveillance photograph: the sharp, predatory posture, the silver hair, and the arrogance of a man who believed money made him untouchable.
"Hang on," Marcus growled.
He didn't wait for the security gate to open. Marcus rammed the SUV through the perimeter chain-link fence, the metal tearing with a horrific screech as we blew past the warning signs and roared onto the concrete apron.
Julian spun around at the sound of the crash.
"Go! Get inside! Close the hatch!" Julian screamed to his pilots, pulling a nickel-plated automatic pistol from his coat.
The two guards dropped the flight cases and drew their weapons, opening fire on our vehicle.
Bullets pinged off the armored engine block of the SUV as Marcus spun the wheel, executing a deliberate pit maneuver that slammed our heavy front bumper directly into the Gulfstream’s front landing gear with bone-shattering force.
The impact buckled the nose wheel, dropping the front of the multi-million-dollar jet onto the concrete with a deafening scrape of titanium and sparks. The aircraft lurched, its boarding stairs tearing free and crashing onto the tarmac.
The jet wasn't going anywhere.
"Move! Move! Move!" Marcus shouted, kicking his door open and engaging the two guards with precise, controlled double-taps.
The first guard collapsed into the snow, clutching his shattered shoulder; the second threw his weapon down and raised his hands, terrified of Marcus’s relentless advance.
Julian, seeing his escape vehicle crippled, panicked. He turned and sprinted toward a side door of the hangar, clutching a heavy leather briefcase to his chest.
"Dad! Marcus! Cover the guards!" I shouted.
May you like
I didn't wait for permission. I grabbed the heavy tire iron from between the front seats of the SUV and vaulted out into the sleet, sprinting across the tarmac after the man who had ordered my father’s house burned to the ground.
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