Chapter 12 - The Gary Airstrip
At 5:15 AM, the storm clouds were breaking over northern Indiana, leaving behind a bleak, frozen landscape of dead grass and black asphalt.
A sleek private jet sat on the tarmac of the private airfield, its twin turbine engines whining as they spun up to idle. Four black Suburbans were parked around the perimeter, their headlights cutting through the freezing morning fog.
Preston Whitcomb stood inside the heated hangar, a field bandage wrapped tightly around his bleeding shoulder. Two private doctors were packing the wound while six heavily armed bodyguards watched the open hangar doors with thermal scopes.
“Hurry up,” Preston hissed through clenched teeth. “The feds will have the airspace locked down by six.”
“Sir!” one of the perimeter guards called out over the radio. “Vehicle approaching the south gate. It’s an unmarked DeLuca transport van.”
Preston pushed the doctor away, grabbing a heavy pistol off the table. “Shoot the tires! Kill anyone who steps out—except Harper!”
The van burst through the flimsy chain-link gate, skidding across the icy tarmac. The guards opened fire, peppering the engine block and windshield with high-caliber rounds. The van spun out, crashing into a stack of fuel drums near the hangar door with a deafening screech of metal.
Silence fell over the tarmac, save for the hiss of the van’s punctured radiator.
The driver’s door swung open slowly.
Harper stepped out into the freezing fog. Her hands were raised above her head. She was wearing the bloody, torn remains of her wedding dress, the white fabric stained with soot and oil.
“I’m here, Preston!” she yelled across the tarmac. “Call them off!”
Preston stepped out from behind the armored SUV, a cruel, triumphant smile spreading across his pale face. “Look at that. The prodigal daughter returns. Where’s your mobster husband, Harper? Bleeding out in the front seat?”
“He’s dead,” Harper lied, her voice steady and clear. “The roof crushed him in the basement. I ran because I knew you were the only one who could get me out of the country.”
Preston chuckled, motioning for two guards to flank her. “Smart girl. Bring your hand over here to the laptop, unlock the Swiss transfers, and maybe I’ll let you sit in coach.”
Harper walked slowly across the hangar floor, step by step, until she stood three feet from her father.
“You always underestimated me, Preston,” she whispered.
May you like
Preston frowned, sensing something wrong. “What did you say?”
Harper reached behind her back with lightning speed. “I said, Nathan sends his regards.”
