Chapter 6 - The Tarmac Stand-off
The SUV skidded to a halt twenty yards from the Gulfstream’s boarding stairs, cutting off the jet's direct path to the taxiway.
The heavy jet engines whined loudly, kicking up a fierce spray of mist and rainwater as the turbine wash beat against our windshield.
Before the pilot could engage full thrust to maneuver around us, Vance and three operators were out the doors, weapons at the low-ready, moving with swift, synchronized precision toward the aircraft stairs.
I stepped out into the freezing rain, pulling my dark trench coat tight against my chest. The wind whipped my hair across my face, but my stance remained solid—planted, balanced, and ready for whatever came next.
The cabin door of the Gulfstream hissed open.
A figure in an expensive tailored cashmere overcoat stepped out onto the top of the metal stairs. Arthur Sterling. His silver hair was disheveled by the wind, his face twisted in a mask of furious desperation as he looked down at us.
""Get those vehicles out of my way!"" Arthur roared, his voice barely carrying over the scream of the jet turbines. ""You have no jurisdiction here! I am an American citizen, and this is a private international flight!""
""You don't have jurisdiction anywhere anymore, Arthur,"" I called out, stepping closer to the base of the stairs so the sound carried.
Arthur looked down, squinting through the driving rain to identify the woman standing in front of him. Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by a surge of cold hatred.
""You..."" Arthur sneered, gripping the metal handrail. ""You're Eleanor's shadow. You think you can ruin what I spent fifty years building?""
""I don't think, Arthur. I know,"" I said, unzipping my coat pocket and pulling out the encrypted tablet displaying the digitized files, wire transfers, and the original signed confession of the physician he had bribed twenty-five years ago. ""Your accounts are frozen. Your headquarters was raided ten minutes ago. And federal agents are currently securing your estate in Medina.""
Arthur’s face turned the color of ash. He took a step backward toward the cabin door, instinctively reaching into his coat pocket.
""Gunny, watch his right hand!"" I shouted.
Vance moved instantly, bounding up the metal stairs with terrifying speed.
Arthur whipped out a small, snub-nosed revolver from his coat, raising it with a shaking hand toward Vance. It was the desperate, pathetic move of a trapped animal.
""Drop it!"" Vance barked, closing the distance in a fraction of a second.
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Before Arthur could pull the trigger, Vance executed a textbook disarm—a sharp strike to the wrist, a twist of the barrel, and a sweep of the legs that sent the billionaire sprawling hard onto the metal steps of his own private jet.
The revolver clattered down the stairs, landing squarely in a puddle at my feet.
