Chapter 8 - The Airport Sting
Julian stood in the crowded departure terminal of the international airport, wearing an oversized trench coat, a dark baseball cap pulled low, and non-prescription sunglasses. He clutched a fake Canadian passport under the name 'David Miller' and a single carry-on bag packed with five hundred thousand dollars in illicit bearer bonds he had skimmed from a forgotten auxiliary account.
His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He had abandoned his mother at the ruined townhouse, ignored Clara’s hysterical voicemails, and turned off his phone completely. In twelve hours, he would land in Argentina. He would reinvent himself. With his looks and charm, he could find another wealthy heiress. He was a Sterling; he was born to survive.
""Flight 402 to Buenos Aires, now boarding at Gate B12,"" the intercom chimed.
Julian let out a long, ragged exhale. He picked up his bag and hurried toward the boarding ramp, blending into the line of business travelers. He handed his ticket and passport to the airline agent.
The agent scanned the passport. A red light flashed across the terminal monitor.
Julian’s stomach dropped into his shoes. ""Is there a problem?""
""Just a moment, sir,"" the agent said, typing rapidly on her keyboard without looking at him. ""The system requires a manual override.""
""I'm in a rush,"" Julian hissed, sweat beading across his forehead. ""Just push it through!""
""I'm afraid David Miller won't be flying tonight, Julian,"" a low, gravelly voice echoed from behind him.
Julian spun around. Four federal marshals flanked a towering man in a dark Italian trench coat. It was Dominic Romanov's right-hand enforcer, accompanied by the chief investigator from the Federal Securities and Exchange Commission.
""Step out of line, Mr. Sterling,"" the investigator said, producing a pair of polished steel handcuffs. ""You are under arrest for international money laundering, grand larceny, and flight to avoid prosecution.""
Julian backed away, his eyes wild with terror. ""No! No, this is a mistake! I have diplomatic connections! You can't touch me!""
He turned to run, but two burly marshals tackled him hard onto the polished linoleum floor. Julian’s chin smacked against the tile, splitting his lip. His sunglasses flew off, and the carry-on bag burst open, spilling stacks of illegal bearer bonds across the boarding area. Travelers gasped and began recording on their phones.
As the marshals wrenched his arms behind his back, clicking the cold steel cuffs onto his wrists, the crowd parted.
Walking through the terminal was Elena, accompanied by Arthur. She stopped a few feet away from where Julian lay pinned to the ground like a slaughtered animal.
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""Elena!"" Julian choked out, spitting blood onto the tile. ""Tell them! Tell them it's our money! Save me, please!""
Elena looked down at him, her expression colder than winter ice. ""You told me to find a hotel last night, Julian. Now, the state will provide yours for the next twenty-five years.""
