Chapter 6 - The Airstrip ShowdownThe private airstrip sat three miles behind the estate, hidden behind dense pine forests and protected by automated security gates.
I didn't wait for a car. I commandeered an armored all-terrain vehicle from the motor pool, slamming my foot down on the accelerator and smashing straight through the estate's secondary security barrier. The rain pounded violently against the windshield as the vehicle tore down the dark, muddy access road at breakneck speed.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I hit speakerphone with one hand while gripping the steering wheel tightly with the other.
"Boss," Marcus’s voice crackled through the encrypted line. "We caught Valentina trying to hotwire a helicopter on the west pad. She's detained."
"Good," I barked. "What about Matteo?"
"He’s already at the main hangar. His private jet is idling on the tarmac. The clearance lights are on—he's about to take off!"
"Don't let him move an inch. Shoot out the landing gear if you have to."
"Copy that, boss!"
I slammed the vehicle into a sharp drift, sliding around the final corner of the perimeter fence, and the sprawling tarmac of the private airstrip came into view.
Through the pouring rain and the glare of the runway floodlights, I saw it: a sleek black Gulfstream jet with its twin engines screaming at maximum RPM, ready to surge down the runway.
Parked directly in front of the nose wheel was Marcus's tactical cruiser, its emergency lights flashing red and blue. But Matteo wasn't stopping. A black armored SUV driven by one of Matteo's loyal mercenaries was slamming directly into Marcus's cruiser, trying to push it off the tarmac.
I didn't hesitate.
I drove my vehicle straight toward Matteo’s armored SUV at eighty miles per hour.
CRASH!
The impact shook my teeth loose, sending metal screeching against metal. My vehicle’s heavy steel bumper locked directly into the side door of Matteo’s SUV, pinning it hard against the concrete barrier.
The SUV’s driver’s side door flew open, and Matteo tumbled out onto the wet asphalt, clutching a heavy leather briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other.
He scrambled to his feet, coughing, and started sprinting toward the open boarding stairs of the idling jet.
"Matteo!" I roared, throwing my door open and leaping out onto the tarmac.
I raised my pistol and fired two warning shots into the wet concrete just inches ahead of his boots.
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"Stop right there, brother!" I shouted over the deafening roar of the jet engines.
Matteo stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned around, his clothes soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead, holding the leather briefcase tightly against his chest. He looked at me with a wild, desperate expression.
