Chapter 40 - The Runway Intercept
"He’s running," I told my father, a fierce, triumphant energy surging through my veins. "Julian is at Logan Airport. We have to stop his plane before he gets wheels up."
My father didn't waste a single second. "Reynolds, secure these prisoners and hand them over to the state police when they arrive. Clara, get in the SUV."
We drove out of the shipping terminal like a bat out of hell, the heavy armored SUV tearing through the empty, fog-drenched streets of Boston at over a hundred miles an hour.
"David," I spoke rapidly into my headset. "Can you access the airport’s air traffic control network?"
"I'm already in, Clara," David replied, the rapid clicking of his keyboard serving as the soundtrack to our pursuit. "Julian’s private Gulfstream jet is currently taxiing on Runway 4-Right. He has skipped all pre-flight protocols and is attempting an emergency, unauthorized takeoff."
"Ground him," my father commanded from the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel.
"I can't physically stop the plane," David shouted in frustration. "But I can hack the runway lighting systems and scramble the ground control radar. I’m turning off every single light on Runway 4-Right right now."
As our SUV smashed through the perimeter security gate of the private aviation terminal at Logan Airport, we saw the sleek, white Gulfstream jet accelerating down the tarmac.
Suddenly, the entire runway was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness. The guiding lights vanished instantly.
The pilot of the Gulfstream, completely blinded in the thick coastal fog and traveling at over eighty miles an hour, panicked. He slammed on the emergency brakes. The massive jet skidded violently, the tires screaming and smoking against the tarmac, before veering off the runway and plunging heavily into the muddy, grassy median.
The plane’s landing gear collapsed with a horrific crunch, grounding the aircraft permanently.
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My father slammed the brakes of our SUV mere yards away from the downed jet. We stepped out of the vehicle, weapons drawn, just as the emergency exit door of the Gulfstream kicked open.
Julian Cross stumbled out onto the wing, his immaculate charcoal suit ruined, his silver cane abandoned. He looked frantically around the dark runway, the realization of his total, inescapable defeat finally crashing down upon him.
