Chapter 9
The rain was lashing against the windshield in violent, blinding sheets as the three black Suburbans tore down the private estate road, their high-intensity xenon searchlights slicing through the mountain fog.
Inside the lead vehicle, Percival sat in the front passenger seat, checking the magazine of his customized assault rifle with calm, rhythmic clicks. Beside him, Garrick navigated the tight switchbacks with aggressive, professional precision, the heavy tires gripping the wet asphalt.
"Teterboro tower confirms the Gulfstream is on the apron, Boss," Garrick reported over the roar of the engine. "Engines are spooling up. The pilot filed an emergency departure override claiming private medical transport."
"And the black sedan?" Percival asked, his slate-gray eyes fixed on the winding road ahead.
"The sedan cleared the outer toll booth four minutes ago," Garrick replied, glancing at the encrypted tactical tablet mounted on the dash. "They have two escort vehicles flanking them. Six to eight armed mercenaries."
Percival racked the bolt of his rifle. "They think they are fighting an extraction team. They do not know who is driving behind them."
Three miles ahead, the private airfield at Teterboro emerged from the darkness like an island of concrete and halogen glare. The rain bounced off the tarmac in white sheets, illuminating the sleek white fuselage of a twin-engine Gulfstream G550 idling beside hangar seven.
At the edge of the perimeter fence, the black sedan and its two escort SUVs screeched to a halt beside the aircraft's boarding stairs.
Four armed operatives in dark tactical windbreakers spilled out onto the wet pavement, raising suppressed submachine guns to scan the rain. From the rear seat of the sedan, two men hauled Genevieve Hawthorne toward the stairs. She was barefoot, her hair plastered against her pale face by the storm, her hands bound with plastic zip-ties, fighting with every ounce of her remaining strength.
"Get her up the stairs!" the lead operative barked over the roar of the jet engines. "Tower gave us two minutes before the federal marshals notice the transponder!"
Before Genevieve could be forced onto the bottom step, the heavy chain-link perimeter gate behind them was completely obliterated.
Percival’s armored Suburban rammed through the galvanized steel at sixty miles per hour, sending twisted fencing and support posts flying through the air like shrapnel.
The two flanking Suburbans surged through the breach immediately behind, executing a synchronized tactical drift that boxed in the private jet and the three mercenary vehicles in an inescapable triangle of steel.
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"Ambush!" the lead mercenary screamed, raising his weapon toward the blinding white high beams.
The night exploded into thunder.
