Chapter 8 - The Airstrip Ambush
The timber trail was a nightmarish gauntlet of mud, fallen pine branches, and blinding rain. The SUV bucked violently over deep ruts, its heavy suspension groaning against the abuse. Branches whipped against the windshield like claws, but Marcus kept his foot buried into the gas pedal, his one good arm wrestling the steering wheel with relentless force.
On the passenger seat, his phone sat on speakerphone, linked to the paramedic team in the safe room.
“Her oxygen saturation is down to seventy-eight,” the paramedic reported, background alarms beeping erratically. “We’ve intubated her, Detective, but the toxin is paralyzing her diaphragm. If you don’t have that counter-agent in twelve minutes, the brain damage will be irreversible.”
“I’m breaking through the tree line now,” Marcus gritted through clenched teeth. “Keep pumping the bag!”
The dense forest suddenly opened up into a wide, flat expanse of cracked tarmac—the abandoned Oakhaven private airstrip. At the far end of the runway, beneath the beam of portable floodlights, the rotor blades of a twin-engine executive helicopter were already spinning, slicing through the mist with a deafening, rhythmic roar: thump-thump-thump-thump.
Beside the helicopter sat a black limousine. Two armed mercenaries in combat gear were loading heavy aluminum flight cases into the cargo hold. Eleanor stood near the passenger door of the aircraft, wearing a thick woolen trench coat over her evening gown, clutching a silver metallic briefcase tightly against her chest.
Marcus didn’t slow down. He killed his headlights, utilizing the darkness to close the final two hundred yards.
The mercenaries heard the roar of the oncoming SUV too late. Marcus slammed the high-beams on, blinding the guards standing beside the cargo door. The heavy vehicle barreled straight into the limousine’s rear quarter panel with a bone-shattering metal crunch, spinning the limousine directly into the path of the mercenaries.
One guard was thrown across the tarmac; the other scrambled for cover behind the helicopter’s landing skids, drawing a submachine gun.
Marcus kicked his driver's side door open, rolling out onto the wet asphalt as a burst of automatic gunfire shattered the SUV’s windshield.
Using the hood of the wrecked limousine for cover, Marcus returned fire. Two controlled shots neutralized the remaining mercenary, dropping him to the tarmac.
Eleanor screamed as the rotor wash whipped her blonde hair into a frenzy. Terrified, she lunged toward the helicopter’s cabin door, screaming at the pilot to lift off.
“Take off! Take off now, damn you!” she shrieked through the roaring wind.
The helicopter’s skids began to lift from the pavement, hovering two feet above the ground.
Marcus surged forward, ignoring the searing agony in his wounded shoulder. He leaped toward the ascending skid, his fingers locking around the cold tubular metal just as the aircraft lifted into the air.
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With a desperate, roaring effort, Marcus hauled himself up, ripping open the sliding side door. Eleanor turned, her eyes wide with animal panic, raising the silver briefcase like a club to smash his skull.
“Die, you miserable bastard!” she screamed.
