Chapter 22
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The private airfield was located twenty miles outside the city limits, catering strictly to billionaires and corporate elites who valued discretion over commercial convenience.
Liam drove us in a stolen, nondescript utility van, bypassing the main security gates by cutting through a service road he knew from his federal days. We parked behind a row of empty hangars.
About a hundred yards away, sitting on the tarmac, was a sleek, silver Gulfstream jet. The engines were already whining, preparing for takeoff.
Julian Cross stood near the boarding stairs, yelling frantically into his cell phone. He was flanked by four heavily armed private security guards.
"The FBI is already freezing his domestic accounts," Liam observed, looking through a pair of tactical binoculars. "He is panicking. That makes him sloppy."
"How do we stop the plane?" I asked, my heart hammering.
"We don't," Liam said, a fierce smile touching his lips. "I called in a favor from an old friend at the FAA."
Right on cue, two massive, black tactical SUVs with flashing blue and red lights smashed through the chain-link fence on the far side of the runway, tearing across the tarmac directly toward the Gulfstream.
Julian dropped his phone in sheer terror. His security guards, realizing they were suddenly facing heavily armed federal agents, immediately dropped their weapons and raised their hands, unwilling to die for a boss who was about to be federally indicted.
"The FBI moved faster than I thought," Liam chuckled, opening the door of the van. "Come on. Let's go say goodbye."
May you like
We walked across the tarmac as federal agents swarmed Julian, pinning him against the side of his own luxury jet and slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists.
Julian looked up, his face pale and twisted with rage, and saw me walking toward him.
