The single word poisoned hung in the sterile air of the ICU corridor, vibrating with a lethal weight that threatened to crush the last remnants of my sanity.

DeKalb-Peachtree Airport was locked down tight under the cover of a dense, rolling fog that drifted in from Stone Mountain. We didn't wait for gate clearances or security protocols. The Maybach smashed straight through the perimeter security chain-link fence, tires screeching against the tarmac as we rocketed across the grass toward the private aviation apron.

Parked at the far end of the runway was a sleek, white-and-silver Gulfstream G650, its jet turbines whining with a high-pitched shriek as it prepared for immediate takeoff.

“Cut them off!” I yelled over the engine roar.

Marcus swung our vehicle directly across the nose wheel of the taxiing jet, forcing the pilot to slam on the emergency brakes. Sparks showered across the asphalt as rubber ground against concrete, the multi-million-dollar aircraft tilting violently before coming to a grinding halt.

Before the jet engines could spool down, I was out of the car, my sidearm drawn, sprinting up the rolling aluminum airstairs attached to the aircraft door.

Marcus and the tactical team swarmed the hull behind me, securing the perimeter.

I grabbed the heavy cabin door handle, threw it open, and stepped inside the luxurious leather-lined interior of the private jet.

Sitting in the VIP cabin, sipping scotch from a crystal tumbler, was Alistair Sterling. Bound and gagged in the adjacent seats were Claire and our three children, their eyes wide with fear, though they were unharmed.