Chapter 66 - The Arbiter
The storm of rotor wash and driving rain was immediately drowned out by the sharp rattle of gunfire. The mercenary team surrounding the jet scrambled to form a defensive perimeter, popping smoke grenades that bloomed into thick, gray clouds across the tarmac.
"Suppressing fire on the wing line!" Miller’s men shouted, fanning out into a wedge formation and laying down precise, rhythmic bursts of automatic fire that forced the rear guards behind the SUV engine blocks.
Emily didn't duck. She moved with lethal, predatory grace, firing around the side of a luggage loader. A mercenary stepped out from behind the lead SUV’s rear tire, raising an assault rifle; Emily’s pistol cracked twice, and the man dropped instantly onto the slick tarmac.
I sprinted toward the boarding stairs, taking down another operative who lunged from the shadow of the port engine with an extended baton. A sharp kick to his knee shattered the joint, followed by a point-blank punch that knocked him cold against the landing gear strut.
At the top of the aircraft stairs, the cabin door was half-closed.
Suddenly, a tall, imposing figure stepped out onto the open platform. He wore a heavy wool trench coat that whipped violently in the rotor wind, completely indifferent to the chaos around him. Silver hair was slicked back against an aristocratic skull, and on the hand resting casually against the polished handrail, a heavy gold signet ring caught the runway floodlights.
"Hold your fire!" the old man commanded. His voice wasn't a shout, yet it carried an uncanny, chilling authority that seemed to cut straight through the roar of the jet engines.
In his other arm, he was holding the reinforced carbon-fiber bassinet. Through the clear Lexan viewing window, I could see Leo’s tiny blue blanket.
"Brian!" Emily screamed, freezing ten yards from the stairs, her weapon instantly coming up and locking dead-center on the old man's chest.
"Stand down, Mrs. Harrington," the old man said smoothly, his eyes scanning the two of us with an icy, evaluating detachment. "One twitch of your finger, and my man inside the cabin triggers the depressurization vents on this carrier. The child will suffocate in ninety seconds."
"Who the hell are you?" I growled, stepping up beside Emily, my weapon aimed at his throat, every muscle in my body coiled to kill.
The old man offered a faint, disdainful smile. "Your brother Jason thought he was playing chess when he was barely capable of checkers. Julian Castille thought he was reclaiming an empire, but he was nothing more than a pampered brat with a taste for violence. I am Alistair Vance. For forty years, I have preserved the Harrington foundation from the greed of fools like your father."
"You took my son," Emily said, her voice shaking with lethal promise. "Give him back, or your blood washes this tarmac."
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"The child is the sole remaining blood key to the trust," Alistair replied coolly. "Your brother Jason signed away his rights in a holding cell two hours ago in exchange for an offshore passport. Julian is finished. That leaves only this innocent boy... and you, the failure who walked away to build a quiet life."
Alistair looked down at me, his gaze freezing into pure malice. "You should have stayed the family embarrassment, Brian. Because now, you leave me no choice."
