Chapter 5 - The Chase to Renton Airfield
The Seattle night was slick with a cold, steady drizzle as our tactical SUV tore through the wet asphalt of Interstate 405.
In the backseat, Gregory sat handcuffed between two of my operatives, staring blankly out the bullet-resistant window as the city lights blurred past in a rush of neon and gray. He hadn't spoken a word since we left the hotel. The realization that his father had been ready to abandon him—to let him take the fall for decades of corporate crime and murder—had finally broken whatever pathetic loyalty he had left.
""He's going to the hangar at Renton Municipal,"" Gregory mumbled, his voice cracked. ""The private one near the seaplane basin. There's a Gulfstream g650 waiting on the tarmac. Flight plan filed for Geneva.""
""Good boy, Gregory,"" I said without turning around, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead as I navigated the SUV through a sharp highway curve. ""Keep being helpful, and maybe the federal prosecutor will let you wear your own clothes to the arraignment.""
""Are we authorized for a direct intercept, Captain?"" Vance asked from the passenger seat, checking the magazine of his sidearm with a familiar, comforting click.
""Negative on lethal force, Gunny,"" I replied, gripping the steering wheel tighter as the airfield perimeter fence came into view through the rain. ""Arthur Sterling is going to spend the rest of his life behind bars in a maximum-security federal penitentiary where he can think about every single person he destroyed. But we need him alive, talking, and holding the pen when he signs the full confession.""
""Understood,"" Vance said, pulling out a tactical breaching radio. ""Alpha and Bravo teams are already stationed at the perimeter gates. No bird takes off tonight without our say-so.""
The SUV slowed as we approached the automated security gate of the private aviation facility. A guard in a high-visibility jacket stepped out from the booth, holding up a hand to stop us.
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Before he could reach for his radio, Vance flashed a federal task force badge through the rain-streaked window. The guard hesitated for a fraction of a second, looked at the heavy tactical equipment inside our vehicle, and hurriedly pressed the button to swing the iron gate open.
We surged through, tires hissing against the wet tarmac, heading straight toward the brightly lit hangar at the far end of the runway where a sleek white Gulfstream was already warming its turbines, the red anti-collision beacon flashing rhythmically against the stormy sky.
