CHAPTER 12: The Race to Runway Four
The cold autumn wind whipped across the tarmac at Boston Executive Airport, carrying the roar of twin-jet engines spinning up for takeoff.
A sleek, white Gulfstream private jet sat idling on Runway Four, its navigation lights blinking rhythmically against the darkening, bruised-purple sky. The boarding stairs were still attached, and a single passenger—carrying a heavy leather briefcase—was rushing across the tarmac escorted by an airport operations van.
Dr. Jonathan Hayes looked sixty-five, with immaculate silver hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and a tailored Burberry trench coat that screamed old-money respectability. But right now, his face was slick with cold sweat. He kept glancing nervously back toward the terminal entrance.
He had received the encrypted notification thirty minutes ago: Julian Vance had been arrested at Logan, and the federal task force had seized the Zurich servers. If Jonathan didn't board this plane and fly to Geneva tonight, the paper trail linking him to the thirty-year medical cover-up of Catherine Vance would land him in a federal penitentiary for the rest of his life.
"Hurry up," Jonathan hissed to the driver of the operations van as it screeched to a halt at the base of the boarding stairs.
"Just doing my job, Doc," the driver muttered, popping the van doors open.
Jonathan scrambled out of the vehicle, clutching his heavy leather briefcase to his chest like a shield. He grabbed the metal handrail of the boarding stairs and began climbing upward two steps at a time, desperate to reach the heavy cabin door.
VREEE—!
The sharp, piercing shriek of squealing tires echoed across the tarmac.
Jonathan froze on the fifth step, looking down.
A black SUV came barreling around the corner of the hangar at breakneck speed, ignoring the red flashing runway signals entirely. The SUV drifted sideways in a cloud of burning rubber before slamming to a halt right at the base of the boarding stairs, blocking the jet's exit path completely.
The driver's side door flew open.
Elena Rostova stepped out of the SUV with the cold, unyielding grace of an executioner. Behind her, Catherine and Clara poured out of the passenger doors, while the red-and-blue lights of a trailing airport police cruiser flashed in the distance.
"Dr. Hayes!" Elena's voice cut cleanly through the roar of the jet turbines, amplified by the open air. "Leaving so soon without saying goodbye to your old patient?"
Jonathan’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He turned and began climbing the remaining stairs faster, screaming toward the open cabin door inside. "Close the hatch! Seal the door! Pilot, take off right now!"
Inside the cockpit, the pilot—seeing the police cruiser and the aggressive SUV blocking the runway—instantly aborted the ignition sequence, cutting the fuel feed with a loud mechanical whine. The jet turbines spun down into silence.
Jonathan reached the top platform, grabbed the heavy cabin door handle, and yanked it inward.
But a hand shot out from the interior aisle, slamming the door shut right in his face.
Jonathan staggered backward, gasping for breath, turning around to find Clara standing on the top landing of the stairs, blocking his path. Clara had slipped through the private aviation hangar's service door three minutes ahead of them, cutting off the jet's crew from the inside.
"Going somewhere, Doctor?" Clara asked smoothly, holding up a small, digital forensic wand that immediately scanned the barcode on Jonathan's leather briefcase.
Jonathan backed up against the metal railing, trapped between Clara from above and Elena, Catherine, and the police closing in from below.
"You can't do this!" Jonathan shouted, his voice cracking with rising hysteria as Elena slowly ascended the metal stairs step by step. "I am a respected physician! I saved lives!"
Elena stopped three steps below him. She looked up at the man who had stolen Catherine's life thirty years ago, her expression carved from absolute ice.
"You didn't save lives, Jonathan," Elena said quietly, her voice ringing with deadly clarity. "You sold them. And tonight, your shift is finally over."
As the airport police swarmed the stairs to slap steel cuffs onto the disgraced doctor's wrists, Jonathan dropped his leather briefcase. It snapped open on the metal grating, spilling dozens of aged, yellowed adoption and medical files across the steps.
May you like
One particular document fluttered out into the wind, landing right at Catherine’s feet.
Catherine picked it up. Her eyes widened as she read the name on the birth certificate—a name that revealed the true reason why David and Arthur had targeted Maya in the first place.
