Chapter 9 - MIDNIGHT CHASE IN VERMONTThe private airfield in rural Vermont was pitch-black, save for the flickering runway lights cutting through a heavy, swirling mist.
A sleek twin-engine private jet sat idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines whining against the damp night air.
Inside the private hangar, Michael Callahan looked like a hunted animal. His designer suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and his hands trembled as he zipped up a heavy leather duffel bag stuffed with gold bullion and bearer bonds.
"Come on, come on," Michael muttered to himself, pacing frantically toward the hangar doors. "Where is the car? The pilot said the transport would be here ten minutes ago!"
Suddenly, the heavy metal doors of the hangar didn't just open—they slid apart with a loud mechanical hiss.
Headlights blared into the darkness.
Two black armored SUVs roared into the hangar, their tires screaming against the concrete floor before skidding to a halt, trapping the private jet and blocking any possible escape route.
Michael stumbled backward, shielding his eyes from the blinding high beams.
The doors of the lead SUV opened.
Jonathan Hart stepped out first, adjusting his dark overcoat against the freezing mountain wind. A second later, Ellie stepped out beside him, moving with absolute calm and elegance, her heels clicking rhythmically against the tarmac.
Michael’s jaw dropped. Color completely drained from his face.
"You... you're insane!" Michael screamed, his voice cracking with panic as he reached instinctively for his coat pocket. "How did you find me? This was a secure location!"
"Nothing is secure when you have terrible op-sec, Michael," Jonathan said, his voice echoing coldly in the cavernous hangar as he walked forward, his hands still in his pockets. "And certainly not when you try to steal pension funds from working-class people."
Michael backed away until he hit the side of the idling jet's landing gear. He pulled a small, silver-plated pistol from his coat pocket, waving it frantically between Jonathan and Ellie.
"Stay back! Both of you!" Michael shrieked, hysteria taking over his voice. "I swear to God, I'll shoot! I have nothing left to lose!"
Jonathan didn't even flinch. He didn't break his stride.
Before Michael could raise the barrel, a sharp crack echoed through the hangar.
A high-powered tactical dart—fired silently from the shadows by one of Jonathan’s elite security specialists—struck Michael squarely in the neck.
Michael gasped, dropping the pistol instantly as his eyes rolled back. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the cold concrete floor, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Ellie walked up, stopping a few feet away from the fallen disgraced CEO. She looked down at him with a mixture of pity and absolute cold indifference.
"Tie him up and hand him over to the federal Marshals waiting at the state line," Ellie instructed calmly, turning to her security lead.
"Right away, Mrs. Hart," the commander nodded.
Jonathan walked up beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close against the cold mountain wind.
"Well," Jonathan smiled softly. "That wraps up loose end number one. Shall we head back to Boston? Private chef is making your favorite."
May you like
Ellie leaned her head against his shoulder, looking out at the foggy runway as the private jet’s engines wound down to a silent stop.
"Let's go home, Jon," Ellie whispered. "The world is finally back in balance."
