Chapter 7 - Thirty Thousand Feet Above HellThe private Gulfstream G650 cut through the midnight clouds thirty thousand feet above the Gulf of Mexico. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
Vincent sat at a mahogany table, reviewing real-time satellite telemetry on his laptop. Across from him sat three of his most lethal enforcers, their assault rifles disassembled and meticulously cleaned on velvet cloths.
Suddenly, the cabin intercom crackled to life.
"Boss," the pilot’s voice came through, laced with urgency. "We have an unauthorized radar signature tracking us from the east. Two twin-engine turboprops—no transponders, military-spec jamming equipment active. They’re closing fast!"
Vincent didn't look up from his screen. "Cartel interception."
"They’re attempting to lock weapons on our fuselage," the pilot reported, his voice rising in panic. "They’re trying to force us down in international waters!"
Vincent calmly closed his laptop, stood up, and walked up to the cockpit.
Through the massive reinforced windshield, the dark, menacing shapes of two blacked-out military-grade aircraft flanked their left and right wings, their wingtip missile pods glowing with armed indicator lights.
"They think they can ground me," Vincent muttered to himself.
He keyed the pilot's external radio frequency. "Open all emergency channels. Broadcast my personal signature on the international marine frequency."
The pilot’s hands shook slightly over the controls. "Sir? That will broadcast our exact GPS coordinates to every hostile asset within five hundred miles!"
"Do it."
A second later, the radio speaker hissed, and a cold, distorted voice filtered through the cockpit comms:
“Hale. Your flight is terminated. Surrender the aircraft or be blown out of the sky. Marcus sends his regards.”
Vincent leaned forward, pressing the transmission button with his thumb. His voice was steady, calm, and utterly devoid of fear.
"Tell Marcus that when I land in the Caymans, I’m going to personally show him what happens to men who steal from my family."
Vincent reached up and flipped a heavy brass toggle switch on the overhead console—a switch that hadn't been touched in over a decade.
"Deploy defensive countermeasures. And arm our external pods."
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The pilot’s eyes widened in horror. "Boss... this is a civilian luxury jet!"
"It was retrofitted by the defense ministry in '18, pilot," Vincent said coldly. "Press the button."
