Chapter 134 - Ethan’s Last Stand
The wind on the open tarmac was freezing, smelling of jet fuel and burning rubber.
Ethan stepped out of the vehicle, his dark suit flapping wildly in the jet's engine wash. He didn't draw his pistol. He raised both hands, palm-forward, walking slowly toward the boarding stair.
"Let the nun go, Dominic!" Ethan called out, his voice cutting through the roar of the turbines. "This is between you and me! You want a hostage? Take me!"
Dominic leaned over the aluminum rail, his face twisted in a manic, victorious sneer.
"Take you, Ethan?" Dominic laughed, a shrill, unhinged sound. "Why would I take a discarded soldier when I can leave you with the memory of another corpse?"
He pointed his weapon down the stairs, directly at Sister Beatrice's head.
From inside our vehicle, Noah tapped my arm.
He didn't speak. He handed me his iPad, which was linked to the airport’s automated surface radar and ground traffic control system.
On the screen was an interactive schematic of Hangar 14’s subterranean aviation fuel manifold.
"Mom," Noah whispered, his hazel eyes completely clear of fear. "The emergency fuel cutoff valve for Bay 3 is located twelve inches beneath the yellow concrete junction box right beside Ethan’s left boot."
I looked at my son, then grabbed my comms mic: "Ethan! The yellow ground junction by your foot! Manual fuel trip!"
Ethan didn't hesitate for half a second.
He didn't look down. He dropped his entire 210-pound weight straight down onto his left heel, stomping the heavy steel cover of the emergency fuel trip valve with concussive force.
CLANG.
The subterranean safety valve slammed shut.
The high-pressure kerosene supply to the Gulfstream’s starboard engine was severed instantly.
The turbine sputtered, let out a massive backfire that shook the fuselage, and died with a sickening mechanical whine, throwing the heavy aircraft into an uncontrolled, asymmetrical yaw that spun the boarding stair forty degrees across the slick concrete.
The mercenary holding Sister Beatrice lost his footing on the wet aluminum steps, tumbling backward onto the tarmac.
Ethan moved with the blinding speed of an apex predator.
He closed the thirty feet in two seconds, caught Sister Beatrice by the arm before she could hit the ground, swung her behind the reinforced steel landing gear strut, drew his concealed .45, and fired two precise rounds into the front turbine intake of the port engine.
The second engine disintegrated in a shower of shredded titanium fan blades and black smoke.
The jet was dead.
Dominic stumbled down the ruined airstair, screaming in blind rage, his weapon raised, firing wildly into the smoke.
Ethan didn't take cover.
He closed the distance, parried Dominic’s gun arm with a brutal upward forearm strike that shattered the Count’s wrist with a sickening crack, disarmed him in mid-air, and drove his right fist straight through Dominic’s aristocratic jaw.
CRUNCH.
The Count of the Sterling-Vance empire flew backward, his head slamming against the concrete tarmac, his teeth skittering across the wet asphalt.
He lay groaning in the rain, blood pouring from his shattered nose, clutching his broken wrist.
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Ethan stood over him, steam rising from his broad shoulders, his weapon holstered, looking down at the defeated monster with pure, unadulterated disgust.
"You're done, Dominic," Ethan whispered, his voice steady as granite. "The war is over."
