Chapter 17
The tactical leader was pinned to the frozen ground, coughing up snow and gasping for air against the biting mountain wind. Julian walked over slowly, standing above him with a cold, unforgiving expression etched across his face.
"Where is David Vance?" Julian demanded, pressing the barrel of his rifle lightly against the operative's tactical vest. The operative spat blood into the snow, letting out a harsh, defiant laugh that echoed off the trees.
"You think David is hiding in some alpine cabin, Vance? He's already inside your Manhattan penthouse," the operative mocked. Julian’s blood ran cold as the horrifying realization hit him with terrifying clarity.
The public press conference bait was a double-edged sword; while they were waiting in the mountains, David had bypassed the city security. "Miller! Get the pilot on the radio right now; we're flying back to Manhattan immediately," Julian ordered frantically.
Within twenty minutes, a black federal helicopter lifted off from the clearing behind the safehouse, roaring into the storm clouds. The flight down to New York was a blur of high-altitude turbulence and overwhelming anxiety.
As the helicopter touched down on the rooftop helipad of the Manhattan penthouse, emergency sirens blared from the street below. Smoke was billowing from the top-floor executive suite windows, painting the night sky in ominous shades of orange and black.
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Julian sprinted down the emergency stairwell, bursting through the reinforced doors of his private penthouse apartment. The entire living room was in ruins, charred furniture and shattered glass scattered everywhere across the floor.
Standing in the center of the wreckage, holding a gasoline canister and a lit lighter, was David Vance.
