Chapter 7 - The Private Airstrip
I didn't waste another second on Harrison. I left him standing in the gloom of the boathouse, sprinted back to my rental car, and threw the vehicle into reverse, kicking up a storm of gravel as I tore out of the tree line.
My phone was ringing continuously on the passenger seat—flashing Marcus Vance’s name repeatedly. I hit the speaker button with a trembling finger.
"Julian! Where the hell are you?" Marcus’s voice exploded through the speakers, laced with frantic urgency. "The board meeting was moved up! It started five minutes ago!"
"They're moving Ethan, Marcus!" I screamed over the roar of the engine as I hit the highway, pressing the accelerator to the floor. "My mother is taking him out of the country! She's at the municipal airstrip!"
"Listen to me, Julian, the airstrip is private property owned by Blackwood Holdings!" Marcus shouted back. "Federal jurisdiction, armed security, perimeter guards—if you breach that tarmac without a court order, they won't just arrest you; they'll legally designate you a fugitive!"
"I don't care about federal jurisdiction!" I yelled, my eyes locked on the endless stretch of gray asphalt rushing toward me. "They are taking my son! If I let them leave this state, I will never see him again!"
"Then stop driving to the front gates," Marcus said, his tone abruptly shifting from panic to calculating strategy. "There's an old maintenance access road on the eastern perimeter of the airfield, near the fuel depots. It's used by the local utility crews. The gate lock hasn't been upgraded to biometric security yet. If you can get past the perimeter fence before their security detail mobilizes, you might intercept the tarmac before the private jet clears the runway."
"Got it," I choked out, hanging up without waiting for a goodbye.
The municipal airstrip was fifteen miles away. Normally, the drive took twenty minutes. I cut it down to nine, running red lights, weaving recklessly through morning traffic, and taking sharp turns on two wheels as the adrenaline completely flooded my system.
When the chain-link perimeter fence of the airfield finally loomed into view, I didn't slow down. I spotted the narrow utility access road Marcus had described, half-hidden behind overgrown brush and warning signs.
I veered off the highway, drove my rental car straight through the rusted padlock of the maintenance gate, and barreled onto the tarmac.
Ahead of me, bathed in the harsh morning light, sat a sleek, twin-engine Gulfstream private jet with its turbines already whining at a deafening pitch, preparing to taxi down the runway.
May you like
I slammed on the brakes, threw the car door open, and leaped out onto the open concrete.
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