Chapter 2 - Ghost Flight
The storm over the Atlantic was brutal, lightning ripping through coal-black clouds at thirty thousand feet. Inside the unregistered Gulfstream G650, the cabin lights were dimmed to a dull red.
Marcus sat in the leather captain’s chair, staring at a digital map displaying a live feed of his Beverly Hills residence. Beside him, Viktor adjusted the straps on his tactical vest, checking the suppressed carbine on his lap.
“FBI radio chatter is lit up like a Christmas tree,” Viktor reported, tapping his headset. “They realized you vanished from the penthouse fifteen minutes after we swapped you with the body double. They think you’re heading to Dubai.”
“Let them think that,” Marcus replied without looking up. “What’s the status on the estate?”
Viktor opened a encrypted tablet and displayed thermal imaging from a high-altitude drone flying silently over Los Angeles.
“Estate perimeter is compromised. Three armed vehicles parked in the rear motor court. No security guards from your payroll are present—Cassandra replaced them six hours ago with private contractors from a offshore maritime firm.”
“Black-market mercenaries,” Marcus spat. “They aren’t just stealing assets, Viktor. They’re erasing evidence.”
“Wells transferred forty-five million to a shell company in the Cayman Islands three hours ago,” Viktor continued, scrolling through data. “The buyer for Lily isn't local. The buyer is an international broker operating under the moniker ‘The Collector.’ They use private yachts docked off the coast of Ensenada.”
Marcus’s hand tightened around his glass of scotch until the crystal cracked. “If that boat leaves the harbor, we’ll never find her.”
“We land at a private airfield in San Bernardino in thirty minutes,” Viktor said. “From there, we take two armored SUVs. No lights, no sirens. We hit the house fast.”
“No,” Marcus corrected him, his eyes cold and lifeless. “We don't hit the house fast. We annihilate everyone inside who resists. I want Wells alive long enough to tell me where the money went. Cassandra is mine.”
Suddenly, the tablet chirped. A high-priority alert flashed red across the screen.
CRITICAL SYSTEM NOTICE: BEVERLY HILLS ESTATE SECURITY OVERRIDE INITIATED.
“What is that?” Marcus demanded.
Viktor zoomed in on the property map. “Someone inside the house just triggered the master lockdown system. Steel shutters are dropping over all windows and doors.”
“Is it Cassandra?”
“No,” Viktor said, eyes widening slightly. “The override code used was your personal master key. The one only you and…”
Viktor stopped.
Marcus leaned forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Lily.”
She knew the code. Marcus had taught her how to play the ‘numbers game’ on the safe room keypad in case of an intruder. The seven-year-old girl was locked inside the mansion, sealed behind six inches of reinforced steel, while armed men tried to break down the interior doors.
“She’s fighting back,” Marcus whispered, a grim spark of pride cutting through his rage. “She’s holding them off.”
“Boss,” Viktor said, looking at the time display. “The lockdown shutters take four minutes to descend, but once they lock, not even a breaching charge can blow them without collapse risks. If they grab her before the shutters seal—”
“Pilot!” Marcus roared toward the cockpit. “Drop altitude! Cut the transponder now!”
“Sir,” the pilot’s voice came over the intercom, panicked. “We’re entering Los Angeles airspace! Air Traffic Control is demanding identification!”
“Cut it!” Marcus screamed. “We descend NOW!”
The jet pitched wildly downward, plunging through the storm clouds into the sparkling expanse of the Los Angeles basin. Below them, the city of angels looked like a grid of gold and fire.
May you like
Marcus locked a fresh magazine into his sidearm.
Hold on, Lily, he thought. Daddy is coming.
