Ethan Cole’s office didn’t just command the top floor of the Seattle obsidian tower; it overlooked a city that trembled at his shadow. But tonight, the city outside was drowned out by the absolute stillness inside the room.

"Brace for impact!"

The private jet violently shuddered as a burst of tracer fire scorched past the starboard wing, illuminating the night sky with brilliant, blinding flashes of white.

"They're trying to force us down!" Mark yelled, strapping himself into the jump seat opposite Ethan. "We’re outgunned! A civilian-class Gulfstream doesn't carry counter-measures!"

"Who said anything about a civilian class?" Ethan’s voice was ice-cold. He strode down the aisle toward the back stateroom, flinging open the door.

Amy woke up with a start, her eyes wide with fear as the plane rocked violently again. "Mr. Cole? What's happening?"

Ethan knelt beside her, his expression softening just enough to calm her frantic breathing. He pulled a heavy, bulletproof tactical vest from the wall locker and expertly strapped it over her small shoulders, making sure the straps were snug.

"Hey, look at me, Amy," Ethan said firmly, holding her small face in his large, calloused hands. "We're going on an adventure. You're going to put on these special headphones, close your eyes, and count to one hundred. Can you do that for me?"

"Are we crashing?" she whispered, her lower lip trembling.

"Not on my watch," Ethan promised.

He locked the stateroom door from the outside, ensuring she was sealed in the safest, most reinforced part of the aircraft. Then he rushed back to the main cabin, where Sophie was gripping her seat rails in sheer terror.

"Ethan! What do we do?" she cried out.

"Mark, open the cargo ramp hatch manually!" Ethan commanded over the screaming wind inside the fuselage.

"Boss, at three hundred knots, the decompression will—"

"Do it!"

With a deafening roar, the hydraulic ramp at the tail of the Gulfstream lowered halfway, sucking freezing, high-altitude air into the cabin. Below them, the rugged, tree-covered mountains of Oregon rushed past in a blur of black shadows.

Through the roaring wind, an attack helicopter loomed directly behind them, its searchlight blindingly bright, a heavy rotary cannon spinning up beneath its nose.

Ethan didn't flinch. He grabbed a heavy, missile-launching tactical case from the overhead locker—standard equipment for high-tier syndicate transport—and unclipped the locking pins. It was a portable, shoulder-fired surface-to-air defense system.

"Hold onto the bulkhead, Sophie!" Ethan roared, stepping right onto the edge of the open cargo ramp, the wind threatening to rip him straight out into the sky.

He hoisted the launcher onto his shoulder, squinting through the digital targeting scope. The wind whipped his dark hair across his face, but his stance was as immovable as a mountain.

The helicopter’s cannon began to spin, preparing to riddle the tail of the plane with lead.

Ethan locked the target.

Whoosh!

A brilliant arc of white fire tore from the launcher, screaming through the night air straight toward the oncoming chopper.

A fraction of a second later, the sky erupted in a massive, blinding fireball. The helicopter shattered into a thousand flaming pieces, spiraling down into the dark forest below like a dying meteor.

Ethan slammed the launcher down, secured the cargo ramp with a hard slam of his boot, and walked back up the aisle as calm and composed as if he had just stepped out of a boardroom meeting.