Chapter 8 - The Siege at Hangar 4
The sun dipped below the jagged silhouette of the Olympic Mountains, painting the sky in deep shades of violet and crimson as Declan’s Aston Martin tore down the deserted access road toward the private aviation strip in Tacoma. The headlights cut through the gathering dusk, illuminating the chain-link fence surrounding Hangar 4.
Through the windshield, Declan could see the sleek white fuselage of a twin-engine Gulfstream idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines whining with a high-pitched drone. Armed guards in tactical gear patrolled the perimeter, carrying automatic weapons with casual professionalism. These weren't street thugs; these were elite mercenaries hired by the Moretti syndicate to secure the escape route.
Declan cut the engine a hundred yards short of the gate, letting the car coast silently into the shadow of a rusted fuel tank. He stepped out, the cool evening air stinging his cheeks. He slung the automatic rifle over his shoulder, strapped the extra magazines to his belt, and pulled the Glock from his waistband.
He didn't call the federal marshals. This wasn't a matter for the justice system anymore; this was a personal reckoning.
Moving with the silent, methodical discipline of his early syndicate days, Declan scaled the chain-link fence, dropping soundlessly onto the gravel on the other side. He utilized the shadows of stacked cargo crates to slip past the first patroling guard, neutralizing him with a swift, silent strike to the carotid artery before the man even hit the ground. He dragged the unconscious body behind a stack of industrial tires and stripped the guard's encrypted radio.
Static hissed softly in his ear.
“Leader to Alpha Team, status report,” a gruff voice crackled over the earpiece. It was Sal Moretti Jr., the ruthless heir to the syndicate empire.
“Perimeter secure,” Declan spoke into the collar mic, altering his vocal pitch slightly. “All clear near the hangar entrance.”
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“Good. Get the final luggage loaded. My father wants to wheels-up in ten minutes before the local authorities catch wind of the airfield manifest.”
Declan smiled grimly. He tapped the radio off, clipped it to his belt, and advanced toward the side personnel door of Hangar 4.
