Chapter 13 - The Iron Hawk
The twin turbine engines of Arthur Sterling’s private Sikorsky helicopter roared into life above the glittering skyline of nocturnal Chicago.
Wind whipped through Arthur’s silver-streaked dark hair as he strapped himself into the leather seat beside Detective Miller.
"This is outside departmental jurisdiction, Mr. Sterling," Miller shouted over the deafening whine of the spinning rotor blades.
"The men who took Julian Mercer just killed two federal marshals on my city’s highway, Detective," Arthur shouted back coldly.
"This is no longer a police matter; this is an act of war against my family, and I fund the airfield they are running to," Arthur added.
Down below, the industrial sprawl of northern Indiana flashed beneath the helicopter's searchlights in sweeps of rusted iron and murky water.
Clara had refused to remain behind at the hospital, sitting across from her father with a tactical tablet resting upon her blue satin lap.
"I have tracked the transponder in Julian Mercer’s shoe lining," Clara said, tapping the satellite tracking interface on her screen.
"He doesn't know it, but the custom shoes he wore to the gala tonight were purchased through our family’s corporate account with embedded RFID tags," Clara explained.
Arthur looked at his daughter, seeing in her eyes the fierce, relentless intellect that had built his financial empire from scratch.
"They've entered Hangar 4 at the Gary International Cargo Terminal," Clara announced, zooming in on the glowing red tracking beacon.
"A Gulfstream G650 with false Panamanian registry has its auxiliary power unit running on the tarmac outside the hangar," she warned.
The helicopter banked sharply, descending through the low-hanging industrial fog like a bird of prey dropping from the clouds.
Below them, three black luxury SUVs were parked haphazardly inside the cavernous illuminated mouth of Hangar 4.
Armed figures in tactical gear were escorting a stumbling, bloodied Julian Mercer toward the mobile airstairs of the waiting jet.
Beside the aircraft stood a tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke cashmere trench coat, leaning casually on a silver-headed cane.
Arthur's jaw clenched until his teeth ground together as the searchlight of the helicopter illuminated the man’s face through the fog.
It was Victor Malakar himself, alive, breathing, and brazenly orchestrating the evacuation of his network on American soil.
"Set us down directly on the taxiway, block that aircraft's nose gear!" Arthur roared into the pilot's headset.
The helicopter touched down with a violent skid, its skids screeching against the wet tarmac fifty yards from the Gulfstream.
Before the blades had even begun to slow, Arthur kicked open the side cabin door and stepped down onto the rain-slicked asphalt.
Rain instantly soaked his white dress shirt, plastering the thin fabric to his muscular chest and broad shoulders.
Two mercenaries raised automatic rifles toward him, but the flashing red lights of four incoming Indiana State Police cruisers crested the runway perimeter.
"Drop your weapons! Federal agents! Lay down your arms!" Detective Miller screamed through a megaphone from behind Arthur's shoulder.
The mercenaries hesitated, their tactical discipline breaking under the simultaneous arrival of the police perimeter and the billionaire's private security convoy.
Victor Malakar did not run; instead, he raised a gloved hand, signaling his men to lower their weapons as sirens converged around the hangar.
"Arthur," Malakar’s deep, cultured voice cut through the damp wind with chilling familiarity.
"You always did know how to make a theatrical entrance, my old friend," the syndicate patriarch remarked with a cold smile.
Arthur walked steadily through the rain, stopping five feet from the man who had ordered his former wife buried alive beneath oak boards.
"Where is your daughter, Malakar?" Arthur asked, his voice low, steady, and deadlier than the firearms surrounding the tarmac.
Malakar glanced toward the cargo container resting inside the hangar, his composure flickering for the briefest fraction of a second.
"Victoria served her purpose, Arthur, she was always expendable in the larger equation of our account settlement," Malakar replied without remorse.
May you like
From behind the steel doors of the cargo container, a muffled scream echoed across the concrete hangar floor.
Victoria Vance was not being rescued; she had been tied to an industrial support pillar, abandoned by her own father to take the fall.
