Chapter 133 - Hostage at the Airfield
Dominic didn't put his hands behind his back.
A man who has lived twenty years as an untouchable titan does not surrender to an iron bracelet without a final, desperate explosion of violence.
With a speed born of blind panic, Dominic reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a small black ceramic detonation transmitter, and pressed the thumb switch.
BOOM.
An explosion rocked the southern courtyard of the Palace of Nations.
The concussion shattered the high stained-glass windows of Courtroom 4B, showering the room in multi-colored crystalline shrapnel and heavy plaster dust. The lights cut out instantly, throwing the chamber into smoke-filled twilight as the building's emergency sirens screamed to life.
"Down!" Ethan roared, his body moving faster than thought, throwing his massive frame across Noah, Sophie, and me, pinning the three of us beneath the solid oak counsel table.
Through the smoke, Dominic’s two remaining personal bodyguards burst into the well of the court, firing non-lethal flash rounds into the ceiling to create chaos.
"Clear the exit! To the tunnel!" Dominic screamed.
By the time Ethan rolled off us, his carbine drawn, Dominic had been dragged through the private magistrate's escape corridor behind the bench, the heavy steel security door slamming shut and locking with an automated electronic hiss.
"Victoria! Stay with Marcus!" Ethan barked, sprinting toward the bench.
"No, Ethan!" I shouted, scrambling to my feet, my heels discarded, my ivory jacket torn at the shoulder. "He isn't going to the street! He’s going to his private jet at Cointrin!"
Fifteen minutes later, our convoy was racing down the airport access road toward Hangar 14, where Dominic’s Gulfstream G650 sat on the tarmac with its twin Rolls-Royce engines screaming at full thrust, preparing for immediate takeoff.
The perimeter fence of the private airfield had been plowed through by Dominic’s armored SUV.
Sitting on the edge of the aircraft’s open boarding stair was Sister Beatrice.
One of Dominic’s mercenaries had dragged the seventy-eight-year-old nun from the private hangar where she had been held, holding her by the collar of her habit, using her as a physical shield between the boarding stair and the advancing federal vehicles.
Dominic stood at the top of the airstair, holding an assault pistol, screaming over the deafening whine of the jet engines:
"Stay back! If any vehicle crosses the yellow tarmac line, the old woman feeds the turbine!"
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Ethan slammed the brakes on our Land Rover, stopping forty yards away on the rain-swept concrete.
The jet’s landing gear chocks had already been pulled; the aircraft was beginning to pivot toward the runway.
