Chapter 8 - THE RACE TO THE AIRFIELDThe roar of the supercharged engine of Alejandro’s matte-black bulletproof Mercedes AMG G 63 shattered the midnight silence of the deserted highway leading out of Monterrey. Elena sat in the passenger seat, her fingers flying across a ruggedized military laptop, tracking the live GPS signal of the convoy carrying Camila and the newborn.
"They're taking the old freight route toward Cadereyta," Elena reported, her eyes glued to the glowing screen. "Two decoy vehicles, but I've isolated the frequency of the main transport van. Don Fernando is personally accompanying them."
Alejandro gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, his foot pressing the gas pedal down until the speedometer crossed the 180 km/h mark. The wind shrieked against the reinforced bulletproof glass.
"How many men?" Alejandro asked, his voice cold and flat.
"At least twelve elite mercenaries from the old cartel security details," Elena replied without looking up. "Heavy weapons. They aren't planning on taking prisoners, Alejandro. Don Fernando knows that as long as you're breathing, his claim to the empire will never be secure."
Alejandro didn't answer. He reached down to the center console, opened a hidden biometric compartment, and pulled out a matte-black Sig Sauer MPX submachine gun along with three extra high-capacity magazines. He checked the chamber with a crisp, mechanical snap, sliding the weapon onto the passenger seat.
For nine months, he had lived with a broken heart, believing he had been abandoned by the only woman he had ever truly loved. For the last two hours, he had lived with the agonizing revelation that his entire life was a lie orchestrated by a monster he had called father.
Not anymore. Tonight, the ghost of Don Fernando Villarreal was going back into the grave—permanently.
Up ahead, through the dense fog rolling in from the industrial valley, the silhouette of the abandoned municipal airfield materialized like a skeletal ruin against the dark sky. A single Gulfstream G650 private jet sat on the tarmac, its turbine engines whining softly, idling in the dark.
Three vehicles—two black SUVs and a white medical transport van—were parked in a semicircle around the boarding ramp of the aircraft.
"Kill the headlights," Elena whispered sharply.
Alejandro clicked off the lights, letting the heavy armored SUV coast silently along the overgrown perimeter grass, cutting the engine fifty yards away from the convoy.
Through the tinted windshield, Alejandro saw them.
Don Fernando stood near the base of the boarding ramp, wearing his tailored winter coat, smoking a thick Cuban cigar. Two heavily armed guards stood beside him, holding submachine guns at the ready.
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Inside the white medical van, through the rear window, Alejandro caught a horrifying glimpse: Camila was strapped to a medical gurney, pale and unconscious, an IV drip taped to her arm. Next to her, a nurse in scrubs was holding a small, clear plastic neonatal incubator.
Inside that incubator was his son.
