Chapter 17 - Altitude of Shadows
At forty-five thousand feet, cutting through the thunderheads at Mach 2, Nathan sat in the cockpit of the experimental interceptor, staring at the telemetry screens. His face was a mask of cold, unyielding rage. Beside him, Kane was loading high-capacity magazines, snapping tactical scopes onto automatic weapons.
"The airstrip belongs to a shell company registered to Vance Global Logistics," Kane reported, reviewing the satellite imagery downloading in real-time. "It’s an old cold-war bunker complex built into the side of the Blackfoot Mountain Range. Concrete blast doors, self-sustaining power, zero external communication. If they seal those blast doors from the inside, a bunker-buster bomb wouldn't scratch them."
"Then we don't let them seal it," Nathan said, pushing the throttle forward. "How long until their transport plane lands?"
"Satellite tracking shows their Gulfstream descending through the clouds right now. They’ll touch down in twelve minutes."
"We touch down in ten."
Nathan cut the running lights. The black interceptor plunged out of the stratosphere like a predatory hawk, slicing through the blizzard that had enveloped the Montana mountains. Below them, hidden among the dense pine forest, two parallel strips of runway lights flared to life in the darkness.
On the runway, a sleek private jet was taxiing toward the mouth of a massive subterranean hangar carved directly into the granite cliffside.
Nathan didn't deploy the landing gear for a conventional approach. He aimed straight for the open runway ahead of the taxiing jet, dropping the flaps at the absolute limit of structural tolerance. The interceptor slammed onto the tarmac with a violent screech of burning rubber, skidding sideways across the icy pavement, throwing up a blinding curtain of snow and sparks.
The nose of Nathan's aircraft spun to a halt less than fifty yards from the Gulfstream's boarding stairs.
Before the ground crew could react, Nathan and Kane kicked their canopies open and hit the frozen asphalt with weapons raised. The ground crew, mercenaries clad in white winter camouflage, reached for sidearms, but Kane was faster—two precise double-taps dropped the perimeter guards instantly.
Nathan sprinted up the stairs of the Gulfstream, kicking the cabin door open with a deafening roar.
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Inside, the cabin was deserted. Champagne flutes sat half-empty on the leather tables. But on the floor of the VIP lounge lay a blood-soaked trail leading directly out of the emergency hatch on the other side of the fuselage, disappearing straight into the yawning darkness of the mountain bunker.
***
