Chapter 9 - The Final Ledger in PortlandThe private hangar at Portland International Jetport was vast, cold, and echoing with the lonely drip of water from a leaking overhead sprinkler pipe.
Inside, a sleek, twin-engine Gulfstream G650 sat idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines whining with a high-pitched, steady whistle.
Marcus Vance stood at the base of the rolling metal staircase, adjusting his cashmere scarf, surrounded by three armed guards. He held a silver-headed cane in his right hand, tapping it rhythmically against the concrete floor.
"Hurry up," Marcus snapped at his pilot, who was finishing a pre-flight checklist near the nose cone. "We take off in three minutes. I want to be across the Canadian border before dawn."
"You're not going to Canada, Marcus."
The voice echoed off the concrete walls with a flat, chilling finality.
Marcus froze. He turned around slowly.
Walking out from the shadows beneath the gantry crane was Roman Bellamy. He wore his heavy charcoal overcoat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, walking with the slow, inevitable pace of an executioner.
Behind him, Eli Cross carried a heavy steel briefcase, flanked by two state troopers with their service rifles slung over their shoulders—men who answered to a judge in Augusta, not the syndicate board in Boston.
"Roman," Marcus said, recovering his composure with a slick, poisonous smile. He gripped his silver cane tighter. "I heard you had a family reunion in the woods. Shame about your guests. They never did learn how to respect private property."
"You sent men after my daughter, Marcus," Roman said, stopping ten feet away. His gray eyes were like chips of winter ice. "That was your first mistake."
"My mistake?" Marcus laughed, a dry, grating sound. "You think killing a few cleanup crew members changes anything? The syndicate owns half the judiciary from here to New York. You can't kill us all, Roman. If I don't board this plane, another director takes my place tomorrow."
"I'm not going to kill you, Marcus," Roman said softly.
He gestured to Eli. Eli snapped open the heavy steel briefcase on the hood of a nearby luggage cart. Inside sat stacks of encrypted flash drives, hard copies of offshore bank transfers, and notarized confessions signed by Arthur Vance detailing every weapons shipment, drug drop, and political bribe executed over the last decade.
"The state police don't need to kill you either," Roman continued, stepping closer until he towered over the syndicate director. "They just need your ledger. And right here is every numbered account, every shell corporation, and every politician on your payroll."
Marcus lunged forward with sudden, desperate violence, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from his coat pocket and leveling it directly at Roman’s chest.
"I'll kill you right here!" Marcus screamed, his face contorted with rage. "I'll burn this whole hangar to the ground!"
Before his finger could squeeze the trigger, a single, sharp crack echoed through the hangar.
Phut.
A 9mm round pierced Marcus’s right shoulder, shattering his clavicle. The revolver dropped from his nerveless fingers, clattering loudly against the concrete floor. Marcus screamed, clutching his bloody shoulder as he collapsed to his knees.
Eli lowered his SIG Sauer, smoke still curling lazily from the barrel.
"You missed the heart, Eli," Roman remarked mildly.
"Saving him for the judge, Boss," Eli replied, holstering his weapon.
The two state troopers stepped forward, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto Marcus’s wrists and jerking him to his feet.
Marcus spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete, glaring up at Roman with pure venom. "You think you've won, Bellamy! The board will put a bounty on your head that every gun-runner in the Atlantic will collect!"
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Roman looked down at him with utter indifference.
"Let them come," Roman said. "I have a lot more room in the cemetery."
