Chapter 6 - THE BETRAYAL IN THE CLOUDSEli was hauled into the belly of the helicopter by a gloved mercenary whose face was hidden behind a black balaclava. The cabin smelled of ozone, gun oil, and leather. As the aircraft tilted sharply, banking hard away from the airport and climbing into the grey morning clouds, Eli curled up on the metal bench seat, clutching his empty, slashed school bag.
Victor climbed in last, pulling the heavy side door shut and locking it with a loud, mechanical clack.
"Status?" Victor barked, strapping himself into the jump seat opposite his son.
The pilot—a scarred woman with a communications headset clamped over her ears—glanced back over her shoulder. "We're clean of airport radar, boss. But we've got two tails coming up from the private airstrip ten miles north. Looks like Petrov's cleaning crew."
Victor let out a cold breath, pulling a spare magazine from his vest and slapping it into his pistol with a crisp metallic click. "Let them chase us. We're heading to the safehouse in the pines."
Eli looked up, his voice trembling with a mixture of terror and fierce anger. "Why won't they stop? Who are these people, Dad? Who are we running from?"
Victor stared at his son for a long, agonizing moment. The hard lines of his face seemed to fracture, just a little, revealing the exhausted, hunted animal beneath the myth of the syndicate boss.
"We aren't running from the mob, Eli," Victor said quietly.
The helicopter lurched violently as a missile trail streaked past the starboard window, exploding in a brilliant ball of white fire fifty yards away.
"Hold on!" the pilot screamed, throwing the bird into a gut-wrenching barrel roll.
"Then who are we running from?!" Eli shouted over the whining turbine.
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Victor pulled a heavy iron key from around his neck and tossed it onto Eli's lap. "Open the secret compartment in the base of your school bag. The real one. Not the one the spotters painted."
Eli's trembling fingers fumbled with the hidden zipper near the padded bottom of the canvas bag. He reached inside, his fingers brushing against cold metal. He pulled out a heavy, leather-bound journal and a pristine, government-issued badge bearing a photo he had never seen before—a photo of a woman with his mother's eyes, stamped with a red classification seal that read: DECEASED / TERMINATED.
