Chapter 7 - THE RUNWAY PURSUIT
“She’s bolting!” Marcus shouted, breaking into a full sprint toward his black SUV parked near the stables.
“Get in!” Richard yelled, diving into the passenger seat as Marcus slammed the vehicle into gear, kicking up a rooster tail of gravel across the pristine driveway.
The SUV rocketed past the limestone fountain, blowing through the open wrought-iron estate gates at fifty miles an hour, narrowly missing the stone pillars.
Marcus gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, his eyes locked onto the winding country road that led directly to the private Hawthorne Aviation airstrip near the river.
“She’s got a twenty-minute head start,” Marcus warned, pressing the accelerator down until the engine roared in protest. “If she gets her private jet off the ground before we reach the tarmac, she’s in international airspace by midnight.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Richard muttered, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
His fingers shook as he dialed a familiar number.
It connected on the third ring.
“State Police Dispatch, Trooper Miller speaking. How can I direct your call?”
“This is Richard Hawthorne,” Richard commanded, his voice carrying the terrifying authority of a man who owned half the county’s infrastructure. “I am issuing an immediate BOLO—Be On the Lookout—for a black Mercedes transport van, license plate 7-XYZ-89, heading toward Hawthorne Airstrip Route 4. The driver is wanted for federal wire fraud, embezzlement, and the homicide of my son, Leo Hawthorne.”
A brief pause on the other end, followed by the sound of rapid computer typing.
“Mr. Hawthorne? Did you say... homicide?”
“Lock down the airstrip immediately,” Richard roared into the phone. “Dispatch every cruiser you have on Route 4. If that plane takes off with Eleanor Hawthorne on board, every officer in this county will be answering to me by morning!”
“Copy that, Mr. Hawthorne! Units dispatched! Intercept in three minutes!”
Marcus slammed on the brakes as the SUV rounded a sharp curve in the tree-lined highway, and there, blocking the paved access road fifty yards ahead of them, was the sleek black Mercedes transport van, doors wide open, abandoned beside the chain-link security gate of the private airstrip.
Beyond the gate, sitting on the floodlit tarmac with its twin jet engines whining at high idle, was Eleanor’s private Gulfstream jet.
The boarding stairs were rolled out. A solitary figure in a cream-colored designer coat was climbing the stairs toward the cabin door.
Eleanor.
“Out of the car!” Marcus yelled, drawing his sidearm as he threw open his door and hit the asphalt.
Richard didn't wait for Marcus. He leaped out of the SUV and sprinted across the gravel toward the open chain-link gate, his lungs burning, his eyes fixed entirely on the woman climbing toward the jet cabin.
“ELENOR!” Richard bellowed, his voice echoing across the open tarmac.
The figure on the stairs paused.
Eleanor turned slowly, looking down from the top of the metal steps. The wind from the jet engines whipped her silver-blonde hair across her face, but even from fifty yards away, Richard could see the cold, calculated smirk on her lips.
She raised her hand—not in surrender, but in a mocking, casual wave.
May you like
Then she turned and stepped inside the cabin.
The heavy aluminum cabin door swung shut with a hydraulic hiss. The jet began to inch forward, its tires rolling smoothly across the painted white lines of the runway as the engines shrieked into a deafening roar.
