Chapter 42 - The Ghost of Antwerp
The tarmac of Antwerp’s private executive airfield looked like a war zone under the relentless European drizzle. When Eleanor’s charter touched down under a false diplomatic transponder three hours later, the local police sirens were still flashing in the distance, held at bay by high-tier private security protocols and forged federal jurisdictions.
Eleanor cut through the perimeter fence behind Hangar 4, her suppressed Sig Sauer low against her thigh. The scent of ozone, burnt jet fuel, and spilled blood hung heavy in the damp air.
She found Julian propped against the landing gear of a bullet-riddled Gulfstream IV. His tactical vest was soaked in dark, arterial crimson where two intermediate-caliber rounds had perforated his side. His breathing was shallow, his lips pale, but his grip on his sidearm had not slackened by an inch.
"You're late," Julian rasped, forcing a grimace that was meant to be a smile.
"Keep your mouth shut and hold pressure," Eleanor ordered fiercely, dropping to her knees. She pulled quick-clot gauze from her med-pouch and packed the entry wound in his abdomen without hesitation. Julian groaned, his head falling back against the rubber tire, veins standing out on his neck.
"Leo..." Julian gasped, his fingers gripping Eleanor’s wrist with surprising strength. "He was alive when they loaded him, Eleanor. But his fever... his skin was gray. The pathogen... it’s accelerating."
Eleanor’s chest tightened so severely she felt her ribs might crack. She touched the cold glass vial in her vest. She had the cure. She held her son’s life in the palm of her hand, but her son was being flown into the dark heart of Europe by mercenaries working for a shadow syndicate.
"Who took him, Julian? Arthur is dead. I saw the bullet punch his heart out. Who gave the order?"
Julian swallowed hard, coughing up a spatter of red. He reached into his coat pocket and handed her an encrypted flight manifest retrieved from the jet's burned avionics bay.
"Arthur was a puppet at the end, Eleanor. He thought he was the master of the Vance dynasty, but he was just the enforcer. The order to take Leo came from an IP address rooted in the private server farm of the Saint-Germain Foundation."
Eleanor froze. The Saint-Germain Foundation was the ultimate philanthropic facade for old European aristocratic wealth. It was chaired by one woman: Madame Beatrice De Winter. Her own godmother. The woman who had stood beside Eleanor at her wedding, kissing her cheek while whispering promises of eternal protection.
"Beatrice..." Eleanor whispered, the sheer magnitude of the betrayal ringing in her ears like a church bell in an empty cathedral.
"She doesn't just want the twelve billion dollars," Julian whispered, his voice fading as shock began to claim his motor functions. "The legal file you found in the safe... it was never about Arthur’s infidelity. It was a genetic bequest clause. The De Winter bloodline was written out of the Habsburg-Vance trust eighty years ago. Leo’s DNA is the sole biometric key that unlocks the sovereign vaults beneath Zurich and Paris. If Leo dies before he claims it... the trust defaults to Beatrice."
"And if he dies after she extracts his bone marrow," Eleanor deduced, her eyes narrowing into cold, diamond-hard fury, "the biometric key becomes hers permanently."
"She’s taken him to Rotterdam," Julian breathed, his eyes fluttering. "The container terminal... Berth 44. They have a surgical team waiting on a container vessel. They’re going to harvest the child before sunrise..."
Eleanor secured the pressure bandage, injected Julian with a dose of battlefield morphine, and dragged him inside the maintenance shed, barricading the door from the inside to protect him from looters and rogue authorities.
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"Hang on, Julian," she commanded, looking into the eyes of the only man who had remained loyal through the slaughter. "Don't you dare die on me. I’m bringing our boy back. And I’m burning every single one of them to ash."
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