Chapter 3 - The Secret Hangar
The private airfield sat four miles behind the Whitmore estate, hidden behind a thick tree line of dense oaks and accessed only by a private asphalt road that required an encrypted radio transponder to open.
Ethan’s black SUV tore down the lane at ninety miles per hour, tires screaming against the damp pavement, headlights cutting through the heavy Illinois fog like two scythes. In the passenger seat, Marcus checked the magazine of his sidearm with a sharp metallic click.
"Mr. Whitmore, my team is sweeping the terminal perimeter. If Victor Vance is moving assets tonight, his private jet—a Gulfstream G650 registered under an offshore holding company—is likely fueled on the tarmac."
"He's not just moving assets," Ethan said, his knuckles white as death on the steering wheel. "He’s trying to transfer the digital ownership keys of our entire autonomous shipping network to a foreign server. If those keys leave the country before sunrise, our entire fleet—every automated cargo ship, every drone warehouse, every freight train line from Chicago to Rotterdam—locks under a hostile takeover protocol. I’ll be bankrupt by dawn."
"And Miss Foster?" Marcus asked cautiously.
"She’s locked in the mansion’s panic room with three guards outside the door," Ethan said, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. "She’s finished. Once we secure the servers, the federal wire fraud indictment will hit her before her wedding dress even arrives from Milan."
The SUV rocketed past a rusted chain-link fence marked PRIVATE PROPERTY - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and burst onto the open tarmac.
Ahead of them, looming out of the swirling fog like a metallic beast, sat a sleek white Gulfstream G650. Its jet engines were already whining, emitting a high-pitched turbine shriek that shook the gravel beneath the SUV's tires. The boarding stairs were lowered, and a figure in a dark trench coat was scrambling up them with a metal briefcase in hand.
"That's Victor," Marcus said, pointing a laser-guided tactical light through the windshield.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He slammed on the brakes, throwing the SUV into a violent slide that spun the vehicle sideways directly across the base of the boarding stairs, blocking the plane's path to the taxiway.
Before the dust could settle, Ethan flung his door open and hit the tarmac, his breath pluming white in the freezing 3 A.M. air.
"Vance!" Ethan roared over the deafening whine of the jet engines. "Stop right there!"
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On the top of the stairs, the man in the trench coat froze. He turned slowly around, lowering the collar of his coat to reveal a face lined with deep wrinkles, silver hair combed sharply back, and eyes burning with a bitter, maniacal fury.
"Ethan Whitmore," Victor Vance shouted over the roar of the turbines, holding the metal briefcase up like a trophy. "You're right on time for your own funeral!"
