Chapter 8 - Checkmate on the Ice
The helicopter's turbine engines were screaming, spinning the main rotor blades into a lethal blur against the falling snow.
On the helipad tarmac, two men in tailored suits carrying black diplomatic briefcases were hurrying toward the open cabin door, escorted by Vance's armed guards.
I barreled across the open snowfield, the Coronado’s wide racing tires chewing through the drifts. The V12 engine howled with predatory fury, echoing across the quiet frozen valley like artillery fire.
""Evan, what are you doing?!"" Vivian screamed, grabbing the dashboard. ""You can't ram a helicopter!""
""I'm not ramming it,"" I said, my jaw locked. ""I'm grounding it.""
I aimed the Coronado directly toward the fuel service cart stationed beside the helipad. Thirty yards away, the guards spotted the midnight-blue missile bearing down on them. They raised their weapons, but the sight of a two-ton machine charging at eighty miles an hour broke their nerve. They scrambled backward, diving into the snowbanks.
At fifty feet, I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right and stomped the heavy iron brake pedal with all my strength.
The Coronado whipped around in a perfect 360-degree flat spin across the sheet of ice. The heavy steel rear quarter-panel swept across the tarmac and collided with the mobile aviation fuel rig, shoving the heavy steel cart directly beneath the helicopter's tail rotor.
CRUNCH.
The spinning tail rotor blades struck the steel tank with an explosive shriek of tearing composite metal. Vibrations ripped through the helicopter’s tail boom, instantly shutting down the primary drive shaft. The chopper tipped sideways onto its skids, disabled and immobilized on the pad.
The two syndicate couriers dropped their briefcases into the snow, throwing their hands into the air as the freezing wind whipped their coats.
Before the remaining guards could recover, a loud police siren wailed in the distance.
From the access highway, four Wisconsin State Patrol cruisers, followed by two unmarked black federal SUVs, roared through the breached gates of Blackridge Performance, their red and blue strobe lights painting the snowy landscape in brilliant flashes.
Vivian turned to me, a fierce, triumphant smile breaking across her face. ""I had Harris transmit the decrypted files to the Federal Trade Commission and the State Attorney General the second we cleared the tunnel.""
Behind us, a lone luxury SUV came speeding from the vault area and slammed on its brakes near the helipad.
Preston Ashford stepped out into the snow, his hair disheveled, his expensive coat covered in drywall dust. He looked at the smoking helicopter, at the disabled Coronado, and finally at the approaching convoy of state and federal police.
""Vivian!"" Preston screamed, his voice cracking with hysterics as he ran toward us. ""What have you done?! You’ve ruined us! You’ve destroyed the family!""
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Vivian opened the gullwing door of the Coronado and stepped out into the blizzard, standing tall and regal beneath the flashing emergency lights.
""No, Preston,"" she said, her voice cutting through the wind with absolute authority. ""I saved the company. You destroyed yourself.""
