My Brother Mocked Me for Being Single at Thanksgiving, Calling Me the Family Failure—Then My Gorgeous Wife Walked In Holding Our Baby, and His Smirk Disappeared. / Chapter 65 / 101

Chapter 65 - A Mother's Vengeance

The twin turbines of the MH-60 screamed at maximum continuous thrust, cutting through the sheets of rain that lashed the night sky over Middlesex County. Below us, the rolling woodlands and darkened suburbs blurred into a sea of shadow.

Inside the cabin, Emily sat across from me, strapping a Kevlar vest over her torn silk blouse. Her face was set in granite. She reloaded two spare magazines, slipping them into her tactical vest with methodical precision.

"You never told me where you learned to shoot like that," I said quietly, leaning across the vibrating floorboards.

A ghost of a grim smile touched her lips, though her eyes remained cold as winter ice. "My grandfather wasn't just a diplomat in Vienna, Brian. He spent twenty years running deep-cover assets behind the Iron Curtain. When I was fourteen, he taught me that when a wolf enters your garden, you don't negotiate with it. You put a bullet between its eyes." She looked up, meeting my gaze directly. "They took our son. Every single man who laid a hand on his crib dies tonight."

"We stick to the objective," I said, gripping her hand. "Leo first. The rest can burn."

"Pilot to team!" the radio crackled in our headsets. "We have visual on Hanscom Field! Two miles out. Air traffic control is offline due to the substation fire, but we've got a private jet taxiing out of Hangar 4. Ground convoy has breached the security perimeter and is pulling directly up to the tarmac stairs!"

I leaned toward the open bay door. Through the night-vision scope, the flat expanse of the tarmac appeared in eerie shades of phosphor green. Three black SUVs had formed a defensive semicircle around the staircase of a sleek, twin-engine business jet. Ground crewmen were rushing to retract the wheel chocks. Men in dark tactical gear were transferring a large, climate-controlled transport pod from the rear of the middle SUV.

"There!" Emily gasped, her hand tightening around my forearm like a vise. "That's the pod! Leo's inside!"

"They're boarding!" Miller shouted. "If that jet reaches rotation speed, we can't shoot it down without risking the package!"

"Pilot," I ordered into the mic, "put us directly across their nose gear! Block the taxiway!"

"Hold on back there!" the pilot yelled.

The helicopter dropped like a stone, the pilot banking hard left and pulling pitch just twenty feet above the runway. The rotor wash tore across the asphalt with hurricane force, blowing over baggage carts, grounding equipment, and ripping the umbrella straight from a ground technician's hands.

The nose of the Gulfstream swung wildly as the corporate pilot hit the brakes to avoid shearing his nose cone into our spinning tail rotor.