Chapter 8 - The Runway AmbushThe private aviation terminal at Teterboro Airport was shrouded in a thick, low-lying fog that rolled in from the Hackensack River, turning the sprawling tarmac into a ghostly expanse of blinking green and red runway lights.
A sleek Gulfstream G650 sat parked on the far side of the tarmac, its twin jet engines whining with a high-pitched turbine shriek, ready for immediate takeoff.
My SUV cut its headlights a quarter-mile away, rolling silently across the damp perimeter gravel before coming to a stop behind a row of empty hangars.
"There's Julian's private security detail," Claire whispered, peering through the passenger-side binoculars. "Four men in tactical gear near the loading ramp. Marcus must have sent his remaining cleanup crew to escort the old man out."
"Where is Marcus?" I asked, scanning the perimeter.
"Likely bleeding out in a gutter somewhere or already on the phone with his federal contacts trying to cut a plea deal," Claire replied coldly. "Marcus was always a survivor first, a soldier second."
I popped the glove compartment, pulling out a pair of encrypted tactical radios and handing one to her.
"We don't take them head-on," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the Gulfstream. "You take the sniper position on top of Hangars 4. Cover the boarding ramp. I’ll move in through the maintenance corridor and cut off Julian before he reaches the cabin door."
Claire hesitated, looking down at her bandaged shoulder. "Dominic, your shoulder—"
"I didn't take the bullet, Claire. You did. Stay sharp, and don't miss."
Without waiting for her argument, I kicked open the passenger door and melted into the shadows of the fog.
The cold night air burned my lungs as I sprinted across the open tarmac, keeping low behind a line of parked baggage carts. Fifty yards ahead, Julian Hale—dressed in a heavy wool overcoat, his face pale and bruised from where I had slammed him against the penthouse window—was hobbling up the aluminum boarding stairs of the jet, leaning heavily on the arm of a bodyguard.
"Move faster!" Julian snarled, his voice carrying clearly across the damp wind. "The feds are already raiding the midtown offices!"
I broke cover, sprinting the final thirty yards across the open asphalt.
"Halt!" one of Julian’s guards shouted, spinning around with an assault rifle raised.
Before he could pull the trigger, a sharp, suppressed thip-thip echoed from the roof of Hangar 4.
The guard’s helmet cracked, and he dropped instantly to the pavement.
The remaining two guards panicked, scrambling for cover behind the landing gear of the Gulfstream.
"Julian!" I roared, drawing my pistol as I closed the distance.
Julian stopped on the third step of the boarding ladder, turning around with a look of sheer disbelief on his face.
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"Dominic? How the hell did you—"
"You left the back door open, Uncle," I said, stopping ten feet from the base of the stairs, my weapon trained squarely on his chest.
