Chapter 4 - The Flight to Lisbon
The private jet sliced through the Atlantic night like a silver razor blade.
Inside the cabin, the lighting was dimmed to a soft amber glow. I sat alone at the polished walnut conference table, reviewing digital dossiers on my tablet while the hum of the Rolls-Royce engines vibrated through the floorboards.
Marcus stepped out of the cockpit area, holding a fresh cup of black coffee and setting it down beside my elbow.
“We’re thirty minutes out from Cascais private airstrip, Boss,” Marcus said quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the two tactical operators sleeping in the aft cabin. “Local ground assets are in position. The villa is isolated—clifftop perimeter, private security detail hired out of a Spanish private military contractor, roughly six armed guards rotating shifts every four hours.”
“Did we trigger any alarms on approach?” I asked, scrolling through the satellite thermal imaging of the Portuguese coastline.
“Negative. Flight plan was filed under a corporate shell tied to one of our maritime subsidiaries in Rotterdam. Customs clearance was pre-approved through local channels before we even left New York.”
I took a sip of the coffee, letting the heat clear my head. “And Nathan?”
“According to the traffic cams near the villa, he and Claire haven't left the property in two days. Ordered groceries delivered yesterday morning. They’re treating it like a permanent vacation.”
“Arrogance is a fatal disease,” I muttered, locking the tablet screen. “They thought they had buried me in my own basement. They thought I was a crippled giant waiting to die.”
“What’s the extraction plan for the assets?” Marcus asked, his hand resting casually on his tactical belt. “The money they transferred into the Swiss accounts—do we seize it on site?”
“We don't seize anything yet, Marcus,” I said, standing up and buttoning my coat. “We walk into that villa, we look them in the eye, and we remind them whose world they’re standing on.”
Twenty-five minutes later, the G650 touched down smoothly on the private tarmac of the Cascais aerodrome.
A sleek black Mercedes van with darkened windows was waiting at the edge of the runway, idling quietly in the Atlantic fog. We piled in without a word. The local asset—a grizzled Portuguese operative named Silva whom I had employed on maritime security contracts for years—slid the side door shut and pulled away from the hangar without turning on his headlights until we hit the coastal highway.
The drive took twenty minutes, winding up steep, narrow cliffside roads overlooking the churning black waves of the Atlantic Ocean.
The villa sat at the very edge of the precipice—a sprawling, ultra-modern fortress of white concrete, floor-to-ceiling glass, and minimalist landscaping. Through the thermal lenses, we could see two guards pacing the front courtyard, smoking cigarettes and chatting in low tones, while a third patrolled the rear terrace overlooking the cliff drop.
“Standard patrol rotation,” Silva murmured from the front seat, speaking in accented English. “We take out the courtyard guards silently, bypass the perimeter alarms using the frequency jammer, and we’re inside within two minutes.”
“No,” I said, leaning forward between the front seats.
Silva frowned, turning his head. “No? Boss, if we storm the front, they’ll hit the panic button before we clear the foyer.”
“We aren't storming anything,” I replied calmly, pulling my leather gloves on over my knuckles. “I’m not going in like an operator executing a raid. I’m going in like a landlord collecting overdue rent.”
Before Silva could argue, I opened the sliding door of the van and stepped out into the damp, salty night air.
Marcus stepped out behind me, his carbine raised in a low ready position, his eyes scanning the darkness.
“Marcus, stay here with Silva,” I ordered, adjusting my collar against the coastal wind. “If anyone tries to leave through the back terrace, stop them. Otherwise... stay in the van.”
“Boss, you can't walk into a hostile compound alone unarmed,” Marcus protested, his voice laced with fierce protective instinct.
I reached inside my coat, pulled out my Sig Sauer, checked the magazine with a practiced click, and slid it back into my shoulder holster. Then I pulled out a heavy titanium cigar cutter and dropped it back into my pocket.
May you like
“I’m not unarmed, Marcus,” I said with a cold, humorless smile. “And I’m not alone. Nathan knows me better than anyone. He knows I always keep my promises.”
Without waiting for another word, I turned away from the van and walked straight down the unlit gravel driveway toward the iron gates of the cliffside villa.
