Chapter 5 - Fire on the Tarmac
The reinforced bumper of the Suburban tore the gate apart like wet paper. Alexander’s drivers didn't tap the brakes; they drifted across the rain-soaked tarmac, tires shrieking, and slammed the second vehicle straight into the side of the utility van parked beside Hangar 4, wedging it against the corrugated steel wall.
The response was immediate and violent.
Muzzle flashes strobed from behind stacks of wooden crates and maintenance scaffolds. High-velocity 5.56mm rounds hammered against the Suburban’s armored glass, spiderwebbing the surface into milky white fractures but failing to penetrate.
Alexander was out of the vehicle before it even fully stopped rolling.
Moving with the brutal, deceptive speed that had made his name a legend across eastern Europe, he rounded the front fender, his Kimber barking three rhythmic shots. The first contractor, caught out in the open attempting to reload an MPX, crumpled backward over a rolling tool chest.
Behind Alexander, Viktor and four tactical operatives poured out, laying down disciplined, suppressive fire that pinned the remaining IronGate mercenaries behind an executive jet's landing gear.
"Flank right!" Alexander barked over the deafening roar of gunfire inside the cavernous hangar. "Cut the fuel lines to that jet!"
A mercenary leaned around the nose cone of the Gulfstream, aiming a rifle directly at Viktor. Alexander didn't hesitate. He stepped into the line of fire, raised his sidearm, and dropped the man with a clean shot through the throat.
Alexander advanced methodically through the smoke and ringing echoes. Up ahead, strapped to a rusted metal chair under the harsh halogen floodlights of the maintenance bay, was Elena Vance.
Her face was bruised, her lip split, and her dark hair was matted with dried blood. Her clothes were torn from the struggle in Brooklyn, but her eyes—the exact same fiery hazel as Rory's—were wide open, burning with defiant life.
Standing behind her was the lead contractor, a scarred man in a grey tactical fleece, holding a combat knife pressed firmly against Elena’s jugular.
"Stand down!" the man roared, his voice cracking against the cavernous ceiling. "One more step and I open her throat! Tell your dogs to drop their iron!"
Alexander stopped ten yards away. He lowered his weapon to his side, his face an unreadable mask of cold marble. Behind him, the gunfire tapered off into silence as his team eliminated the last flanking shooter.
"You're out of contract, soldier," Alexander said, his baritone slicing through the smell of burning aviation fuel. "Your employer has already written you off."
"I work for Senator Vance," the man spat, pressing the blade deeper until a single bead of crimson formed on Elena's pale neck. "The Senator clears everything. You kill me, Voronin, and every federal agency in this country will hunt you down."
Elena looked at Alexander through swollen eyelids. She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
"Alex," she whispered, her voice cracked with dehydration. "Where is... where is my baby?"
"She's outside," Alexander answered, keeping his eyes locked onto the contractor's pupils. "She's safe. She brought me your ledger, Elena."
A ghost of a smile touched Elena’s battered lips. "Forty-seven stars, Alex."
"Forty-seven," Alexander confirmed.
The contractor sneered, pulling Elena’s head back by her hair. "Shut up! Both of you! Drop the gun, Voronin! On the floor, right now, or she dies in front of you!"
"You're holding that knife with your dominant hand," Alexander observed in a conversational tone, completely ignoring the demand. "Your right index finger has a scar from a slide bite. You served in the 75th Ranger Regiment, probably third battalion. Which means you know that at ten yards, a drawn sidearm beats a knife if the shooter doesn't care about collateral."
The contractor's eyes flickered with a millisecond of uncertainty. "You wouldn't risk her."
"I wouldn't," Alexander agreed. "He would."
A laser beam snapped onto the contractor's right eye from high above in the hangar rafters.
Mikhail, perched silently on the crane rail sixty feet up, pulled the trigger of his suppressed marksman rifle. A soft thwip sounded through the hangar.
The contractor didn't even have time to widen his eyes. The back of his skull vanished in a mist of red, and his body went rigid before collapsing backward onto the concrete floor, the combat knife clattering harmlessly away.
Alexander stepped forward in two long strides, catching Elena before she could fall forward in her bindings. His heavy combat knife sliced through the zip-ties on her wrists and ankles in two clean strokes.
He caught her as her knees gave out, scooping her into his arms just as he had done with her daughter an hour before.
"I have you," Alexander murmured. "It's over, Elena."
"He... he has the papers, Alex," Elena gasped, clutching his lapels with trembling, blood-stained fingers. "Richard Vance forged my father’s signature on the sovereign trust. He’s liquidating the entire estate at midnight through the Global Trade Summit in Manhattan. If he signs those deeds, everything my father built... it’s gone. Rory will never be free."
Alexander carried her toward the hangar exit. Rain was falling harder now, washing the blood from the tarmac into dark oily swirls.
As they reached the rear door of the armored Suburban, the door swung open. Rory sat inside, bundled in a warm wool blanket.
The little girl saw her mother’s battered face, gasped, and scrambled forward across the leather seats, flinging her small arms around Elena’s neck.
"Mommy! Mommy!" Rory sobbed, burying her face into Elena's soaked hair.
Elena held her child so tightly her knuckles turned white, tears carving clean paths down her bruised, soot-stained cheeks. "My baby... my brave little girl..."
Alexander watched them for a quiet three seconds, his chest tightening with an emotion he had buried twenty years ago in a shallow grave in the Caucasus.
Then he turned to Viktor.
"What time is the Global Trade Summit gala at the Plaza?" Alexander asked.
"Midnight, Boss," Viktor replied, checking his watch. "Fifty minutes from now. Richard Vance is the keynote speaker. The Secret Service and private security will have the entire fifth floor sealed like a fortress."
May you like
Alexander reached into his pocket, pulled out the paper with the forty-seven purple stars, and handed it to Viktor.
"Call the convoy," Alexander said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. "We are going to crash a party."
