Chapter 11
The heavy air inside the private medevac helicopter tasted of ozone, hot oil, and the copper tang of fear. Below them, the sprawling skyline of the city was a grid of indifferent amber lights, swallowed rapidly by thick, churning storm clouds that rolled in from the lake. Brooke sat in the jump seat, her body curled tightly around the dual infant carriers strapped securely to the reinforced floor brackets. Leo and Luna were sleeping through the violent turbulence, blissfully unaware that their grandfather had just gambled his life to buy them twenty minutes of sky.
Marcus Vance was not on the helicopter. He had stayed behind in the ruined penthouse, anchoring the rear guard with a handful of loyal enforcers, betting that his presence would trick the Romanov tactical team into believing the primary asset was still on the ground. It was a classic military delaying action—brilliant, merciless, and potentially fatal.
"We are clearing the outer ridge, Ms. Vance," the pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom, strained by the whistling wind slamming against the armored cockpit glass. "Cloud cover is thick. We’re losing radar definition."
Brooke reached out, her fingers brushing the plastic handle of Luna’s carrier. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Garrett had known the flight path. That meant Garrett wasn't just working with the Romanovs; he had given them the exact encryption codes for the Vance aviation transponders. Which meant whoever was flying the interception vector knew every move they were making before the rotors even started turning.
"Pilot, what is your radar showing?" Brooke called out, her voice cutting sharply through the roar of the engines.
"Nothing yet, ma'am, just static from the storm—wait. I’ve got a bogey coming up fast from our six o'clock low!" The pilot’s voice pitched upward in panic. "Unidentified aircraft, no transponder matching civilian or municipal registry!"
Before Brooke could unbuckle her safety harness to check the rear monitoring screen, the helicopter gave a violent, stomach-churning shudder. A concussive blast shook the airframe, throwing unsecured medical supplies across the cabin floor. Tracer rounds sliced through the gray clouds just fifty yards off their starboard wing, illuminating the darkness with flashes of blinding orange light.
"They're using an armed pursuit chopper!" the pilot yelled, wrenching the collective hard to port. The evasive maneuver slammed Brooke back against her seat, her breath leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp. "They’re trying to herd us toward the restricted airspace over Lake Michigan!"
"Don't let them push us over the lake!" Brooke commanded, her maternal terror morphing instantly into ice-cold tactical clarity. "If we go down over the water, we have zero cover. Drop altitude! Dive into the industrial shelf!"
"If I drop altitude in this weather without instruments, we’ll clip a crane or a smokestack!"
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"Do it!" Brooke screamed, her voice carrying the absolute authority of a Vance who owned half the city’s skyline. "Now!"
The pilot swore loudly, shoving the cyclic forward. The helicopter plunged into a terrifying, free-falling descent, dropping thousands of feet in mere seconds as the wind screamed a deafening banshee wail against the hull. Through the cabin window, the dark, menacing shapes of factory smokestacks and skeletal crane booms rushed upward at them out of the fog.
