Chapter 7 - The Chase to the Airfield
The man in the front passenger seat turned around. It wasn't a federal agent. It was David Vance, our corporate general counsel—a man who had supposedly retired to Florida six months ago.
"David?" I stared at him, bewildered. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Miami."
David gave a tired, cynical smile, tapping the screen of his tablet. "I was, Julian. Until Victor started transferring stolen funds into accounts bearing my name as a fall guy. I’ve been building my own escape route. And unlike you, I know where Victor keeps his real secrets."
"Is it true?" I asked, my voice trembling as the car sped onto the Dan Ryan Expressway, heading south toward Indiana. "About Sarah? Did Victor have something to do with her crash?"
David’s expression hardened, the cynical amusement draining from his face. "Sarah discovered what Victor was doing with the payroll months before she died. She threatened to go to the board and expose him, ruining everything he had spent a decade building. Victor didn't just steal from your company, Julian. He murdered your wife to protect his empire."
The grief that had haunted me for two years instantly transmuted into a cold, lethal rage. The Lake Forest mansion, the empty bed, the quiet dinners alone—it all rushed back, fueled by the agonizing realization that my best friend had orchestrated it all.
"He's running for his private hangar in Gary," David said, pointing to the GPS tracking map on his tablet. "His private jet is fueled up and ready to fly to the Cayman Islands. If he crosses international airspace, we’ll never touch him again."
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"Step on it," I said, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.
The black town car roared across the state line, weaving dangerously through heavy interstate traffic as the Gary skyline loomed ahead like jagged iron teeth against the stormy dusk sky.
