Chapter 3 - The Teterboro Run
The rain was coming down in sheets by the time Gabriel’s armored Mercedes cut through the Lincoln Tunnel and headed west toward the private aviation terminals of Teterboro Airport.
Inside the back seat, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Marcus sat in the front passenger seat, barking orders into a satellite phone while checking the slide of a suppressed Glock. I sat in the back next to Gabriel, the heavy silence broken only by the rhythmic slap of windshield wipers against glass.
“You shouldn't have come,” Gabriel said suddenly, staring straight ahead as the car’s headlights cut through the heavy New Jersey fog.
“You needed someone who could recognize the psychological state of a terrified child if things went sideways,” I replied smoothly. “Besides, you gave me fifteen thousand dollars. I’m a very attentive employee.”
Gabriel let out a low, dark chuckle. “You’re out of your mind, Claire Donnelly.”
“Takes one to know one.”
When the Mercedes finally pulled off the highway and slipped past the perimeter security gate of the private airfield—thanks to a quick bribe and a heavily coded flash drive Marcus handed to the gate guard—we saw it: a sleek, white Gulfstream G650 idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines whining against the storm.
“That’s her ride,” Marcus muttered, turning around in his seat. “Flight plan filed for Zurich via Reykjavik. She’s cutting and running.”
“Not today,” Gabriel said.
The car didn't stop at the terminal; Gabriel drove straight across the wet tarmac, ignoring the frantic flashing lights of airport ground crews, and pulled hard, sliding to a stop directly in front of the private boarding stairs of the Gulfstream.
The jet’s engines powered down with a dying whine.
The cabin door of the private plane opened, and a figure appeared at the top of the metal stairs, wrapped in an expensive cashmere trench coat, her blond hair pulled back into a sophisticated chignon.
Celeste Vance.
She looked down, expecting her pilot or a customs liaison, but instead found herself staring at an armored Mercedes blocking her escape route.
Gabriel opened his door and stepped out into the rain. I followed right behind him, pulling my hood up over my head.
Celeste froze on the top step, her hand gripping the metal railing. For a second, panic flashed across her aristocratic features, but she quickly smoothed it over, replacing it with the haughty, cold expression of a woman used to looking down on everyone around her.
“Gabriel,” she called out over the sound of the rain. “What on earth is the meaning of this? I have an international flight to catch.”
“You’re not going to Zurich, Celeste,” Gabriel said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the wet tarmac, cold and lethal.
“Don't be absurd,” she sneered, descending the first two steps. “I’m taking a brief European sabbatical. After everything that happened with Elena and poor little Lily, I need time away from this wretched city.”
“You need a prison cell,” Gabriel cut in sharply, taking a step toward the stairs.
Celeste’s eyes flicked to me standing behind him, and a look of pure venom twisted her face. “Ah. I see you’ve replaced my sister with some common nursemaid. How fitting for a thug from the docks to surround himself with hired help.”
That was the moment I snapped.
Before Gabriel could take another step, I pushed past his shoulder, walking right up to the base of the metal stairs, staring up at the woman who had terrorized a four-year-old child.
“I might be hired help, Ms. Vance,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady over the rain. “At least I earned my money honestly. I didn't have to drug a terrified little girl, sing her mother’s lullaby like a psychopath, and plot her murder just to pad a bank account.”
Celeste turned deathly pale. “You—you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know everything,” Gabriel said softly, reaching the bottom of the stairs and placing a heavy, gloved hand on the metal railing. “Lily talked, Celeste. She told us about the candy. She told us about the phone call. And more importantly, my forensic accountants just finished tracing the offshore wire transfer that paid off the hit squad on my SUV three days ago.”
Celeste’s knees buckled slightly. She grabbed the railing to steady herself.
“You’re bluffing,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
“Marcus,” Gabriel didn't even look back.
Marcus stepped out of the shadows, holding up a small, encrypted recording device. He pressed play.
“...make sure the girl doesn't survive the crossfire,” Celeste’s unmistakable voice rang out clearly across the tarmac, cold and clinical. “If Gabriel dies too, the trust is mine. If he lives, he’ll be too broken to fight the probate court.”
The recording clicked off.
May you like
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the patter of rain against the metal stairs.
Celeste stared at us, her mask entirely shattered. She realized, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that there was no escape.
