Chapter 5 - THE THUNDERBIRD RUNThe black UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter cut through the storm clouds like a dark bullet, its rotors screaming against the howling wind.
I sat in the open side door, safety harness strapped tight, watching the lights of northern Virginia streak past below us in a blur of wet asphalt and red taillights. Beside me, Daniel was adjusting his headset, listening to the tactical feed from military air traffic control.
"Mara! Air traffic control has a private Gulfstream N440B on the tarmac at Warrenton Airpark!" Daniel shouted over the roar of the engines. "They’ve requested immediate clearance for takeoff! The FAA hasn't grounded them yet because your mother used an emergency diplomatic clearance code!"
"Who gave her diplomatic clearance?" I asked, adjusting my headset.
"That's the bad news," Daniel replied, his expression dark. "The clearance came from inside the State Department. She has high-level allies, Mara. If that plane wheels up into international airspace, no one can touch her."
"Pilot!" I yelled into the comms. "Can we intercept?"
"We’re three minutes out, Captain!" the pilot reported back. "But she’s already taxiing onto the runway! If she hits full throttle, we won't be able to force her down without blowing her out of the sky!"
"Just get me over that runway!"
Through the heavy rain pouring down the helicopter windshield, the isolated, dark strip of the Warrenton Airpark came into view. Down on the tarmac, a sleek white Gulfstream jet was spinning up its jet engines, the high-pitched whine echoing over the airfield.
A black sedan sat abandoned near the hangar doors—doors left wide open.
"She’s on that plane!" Daniel said.
"Pilot, drop us right in front of her nose wheel!" I ordered.
"Captain, that's wildly unsafe! The jet blast will blow us right out of the sky!"
"Do it! That's an order!"
The Black Hawk pitched violently forward, descending like a stone out of the gray clouds. The jet was accelerating down the runway, its landing lights cutting white beams through the rain.
Our helicopter swooped low, hovering just twenty feet off the tarmac, swinging its nose right into the path of the speeding Gulfstream. The jet’s pilot slammed on the brakes, the tires screaming against the wet asphalt, leaving thick black trails of burning rubber as the massive aircraft skidded to a halt just fifty feet from our hovering rotors.
Before the chopper even stabilized, I unbuckled my harness and dropped ten feet onto the slick pavement, landing in a low roll.
Weapon drawn, I sprinted through the blinding spray of rain toward the jet’s air-stairs, which were slowly swinging open as the pilot tried to figure out what was happening. I hit the steps three at a time, kicking the cabin door wide open.
"Don't move!" I roared, stepping into the luxurious leather-and-mahogany cabin.
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The flight attendant screamed and ducked behind the galley.
At the far end of the cabin, sitting in a plush leather armchair with a glass of scotch in one hand and a satellite phone in the other, sat Victoria Bennett.
