Chapter 15 - THE STALEMATE AT THE EVERGLADES STRIP
Sam didn't surrender. Instead, a desperate, manic grin spread across his face. He threw the van into reverse, smashed backward through a wooden ranch fence, and tore across the marshy grass toward the perimeter fence of the abandoned Everglades airstrip where a twin-engine cartel charter plane sat idling on the dark runway, its propellers cutting through the thick swamp fog.
Sirens wailed in the distance as local state troopers and federal units converged on the perimeter.
Richard’s Maybach screamed through the breached fence seconds later, sliding to a violent halt right beside Sam’s stalled van.
Richard threw open the car door, sprinting across the uneven grass like a man possessed. He yanked the side door of the van open. Luna lay curled on the backseat, breathing slowly, deeply asleep.
"Luna!" Richard cried out, lifting her gently into his arms, checking her pulse with trembling fingers. She was safe, just heavily sedated.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him.
Sam emerged from the driver's seat with his hands raised, but before Marcus or the federal agents could tackle him, a blinding spotlight swept across the runway from the idling charter plane.
The cabin door of the private jet slid open. Stepping down the metal stairs was not a cartel foot soldier, but Viktor Vance himself—having engineered a brazen, high-level prison break earlier that evening using corrupt federal guards on his payroll.
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Viktor held a compact tactical submachine gun, leveling the barrel straight at Richard’s chest.
"Put the girl down, Mr. Sterling," Viktor snarled, stepping forward into the cold moonlight. "You’ve interfered with my family business long enough. Hand my niece over, and I might let you and your precious wife bury her in peace."
