Chapter 7 - The Ambush at the Airfield
The SUV accelerated, its heavy snow tires tearing through the slush as we burst through the chain-link gates of the private airfield.
Through the darkened windows, I could see the blinding beams of floodlights cutting through the swirling snow. Two black pickup trucks were parked crosswise on the tarmac, blocking the path to the twin-engine Sikorsky helicopter whose massive rotors were already spinning, casting long, menacing shadows across the white ground.
"Keep her down!" Declan shouted to Gavin as our convoy slammed to a halt fifty yards from the blockade.
I was pressed flat against the floorboards, Gavin's heavy bulletproof coat draped over my back. The smell of leather, gun oil, and cold air filled my nose. My heart was hammering so hard against my ribs I thought it would wake the baby.
Please, God, I prayed silently, my hands clutching my stomach. Please let us live through this.
Outside, the air shattered with the terrifying, rhythmic roar of gunfire.
POP-POP-POP-POP-POP!
Sparks erupted off the hood of our SUV as bullets slammed into the heavy armor plating. The bulletproof glass spiderwebbed with white fractures, but held fast.
Declan didn't flinch. He sat in the seat above me, his face illuminated by the muzzle flashes outside. He kicked his door open, using the heavy metal barrier of the car as a shield, and began firing back with terrifying precision.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Shouts filled the freezing air. The sound of metal twisting, glass breaking, and men screaming echoed over the roar of the helicopter engine.
"Advance!" Declan's voice boomed out over the chaos, cold and absolute. "Flank the left truck! Leave none of them standing!"
He was a monster in his element. There was no hesitation in him, no fear, no mercy. This was the man who ruled Chicago—a warlord in a charcoal suit, turning an airfield in North Carolina into a graveyard for anyone foolish enough to threaten his bloodline.
Within ninety seconds, the gunfire abruptly stopped.
The heavy silence returned, broken only by the whistling wind and the thrumming chop of the helicopter blades.
The rear door of the SUV opened wider. Cold air rushed into the cabin.
Declan stepped back inside, holding his smoking hand-gun. His coat was covered in snow, his hair wild, a thin smear of blood tracing a line along his high cheekbone where a piece of flying glass had grazed him.
He looked down at me on the floor.
The violent bloodlust in his eyes vanished the instant he looked at my face. He holstered his gun, dropped to his knees on the floorboards beside me, and pulled me into his arms with a force that took my breath away.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his hands frantically scanning my arms, my back, my waist. "Amelia, look at me! Did anything hit you?"
"I'm... I'm okay," I sobbed, buried against his cold wool coat. "I'm okay, Declan."
He let out a long, shuddering gasp, pressing his lips firmly against the top of my head, holding me so tightly I could feel the violent pounding of his own heart against his chest.
"It's over," he whispered, his voice trembling. "It's over, sweetheart. You're safe."
Gavin stepped up to the open door, holding a rag to a bleeding cut on his arm. "The tarmac is clear, boss. The pilot says we have a five-minute window before the weather shuts down the airspace entirely."
Declan lifted me out of the SUV as if I weighed nothing, holding me close to his chest as he walked through the snow toward the waiting helicopter.
I looked over his shoulder. On the tarmac, three dark figures lay motionless in the snow beside the pickup trucks. Declan's security guards were already moving quietly, cleaning the scene, ensuring no trace of the Voss family remained behind.
We climbed the steps into the warmth of the helicopter cabin.
A woman in medical scrubs—Dr. Aris—immediately rushed forward with a diagnostic kit, helping Declan settle me into a wide, leather captain's chair.
"Blood pressure is elevated," Dr. Aris reported quickly, placing a monitor cuff around my arm while checking my pulse. "She's in mild shock, but there are no signs of physical trauma. Mrs. Reed... excuse me, Ms. Hart, take deep breaths for me."
Declan sat in the chair directly opposite mine, refusing to let go of my hand.
The helicopter lifted off, tilting smoothly into the dark, snow-filled sky. Below us, the mountains of North Carolina, the town of Blue Ridge, and the quiet life I had built for four months shrank into tiny, glowing dots of light before vanishing into the storm.
I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, tears streaming silently down my face.
Declan leaned forward, his thumb gently wiping the tears away.
"Don't cry," he murmured, his voice softer than the hum of the engines. "You're going home."
"That's not my home anymore, Declan," I whispered, staring out into the endless black sky. "It's your war zone."
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Declan didn't answer. He just tightened his grip on my hand, his storm-gray eyes staring at me with a terrifying, unyielding devotion that told me one thing with absolute certainty:
I was never going to escape him again.
