Chapter 68 - The Ambush on the Tarmac
"Fine," I said, pretending to sag with defeat, letting my sidearm drop to my side while raising the titanium plate in my left hand. "You win, Vance. Just... don't hurt him. He’s only four months old."
Vance’s chest swelled with arrogant satisfaction. It was the same look Jason had worn at Thanksgiving across that dinner table—the smug, insufferable belief that superiority was an inherited right, that men like me were born to bow to men like them.
"Sensible to the end," Vance mocked, stepping down one metal stair, extending his hand. "Toss it up. Slowly."
I took two steps forward, winding my arm back as if to slide the heavy metal slab up the wet aluminum steps.
"Brian, don't!" Emily screamed, performing the role with Oscar-worthy desperation, taking a frantic step forward.
Vance’s attention flicked to her for half a heartbeat.
That half-second was all Miller needed.
The emergency over-wing exit hatch behind Vance detonated inward with a muffled mechanical pop. Miller burst onto the wing surface like a phantom, his tactical light blinding Vance from his blind spot.
"Down!" Miller roared.
Vance gasped, spinning toward the sudden threat, his thumb instinctively pressing down toward the red detonator on the cradle.
Emily didn't wait.
She fired.
The hollow-point round took Vance cleanly through his right shoulder, the hydraulic impact spinning him around and knocking his arm away from the digital trigger. The remote control flew from his grasp, clattering down the wet metal grating of the stairs.
I didn't think. I sprinted up the stairs like a madman, launching myself across the last three steps as Vance stumbled backward. He tried to draw a snub-nosed revolver from inside his heavy wool coat, but I slammed my entire body weight into his chest, pinning him against the aircraft doorframe.
With my right hand, I snatched the handle of the carbon-fiber cradle, ripping it cleanly out of his reach and tossing it backward onto the rubberized landing mat of the jet’s entryway, well clear of the stairs.
Vance snarled, spitting blood, his remaining good arm slashing a concealed ceramic blade across my ribs. The sharp edge sliced through my tactical vest, biting deep into the flesh beneath my armpit. Pain flared white-hot across my torso, but adrenaline drowned it in fire.
I grabbed his lapels, spun him 180 degrees, and drove his head violently into the corner of the aluminum airframe. The sickening crack echoed over the screaming engines. Vance slumped, his ceramic knife clattering to the floor.
"Emily!" I yelled, dropping to my knees beside the pod.
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She was already there, her weapon holstered, her trembling hands frantically releasing the mechanical latches on the bassinet’s clear canopy. The seals hissed, venting clean cabin air.
Inside, wrapped in his little blue blanket, Leo opened his enormous blue eyes, blinking against the flashing lights, and let out a healthy, indignant, ear-splitting wail.
