Chapter 110 - The Tarmac in the Blizzard
The blizzard intensified as they approached the perimeter fence of Saint-Hubert Airfield on the south shore of Montreal.
The Subaru was gone, abandoned in a snowdrift three miles back. Emma, Claire, and Lily arrived in a stolen airport ground maintenance pickup, the yellow strobe light on the cab flashing silently against the blinding whiteout.
Lily was tucked inside Emma’s coat, completely shielded from the howling forty-mile-per-hour winds.
Ahead, through the curtain of blowing snow, Hangar 4 stood like a massive steel monolith. Its exterior floodlights carved broad cones of yellow light into the storm. On the cleared apron outside, the twin engines of a Dassault Falcon 900 were already spooling up, their high-pitched whine screaming over the sound of the wind.
A black Mercedes-Maybach was parked beside the mobile passenger stairs leading into the aircraft.
Claire checked the magazine of her pistol one last time and shoved it into her coat pocket. "Once we cross that gate, Emma, there is no international law. Victor owns every square inch of that tarmac."
"He doesn't own Lily," Emma said, her voice steady as iron. "And he doesn't own me."
They stepped out of the truck into the freezing gale.
Four private security guards in gray arctic fatigues emerged from the hangar shadow, their carbines pointed at the ground, gesturing for Emma and Claire to advance toward the aircraft.
As they reached the foot of the mobile boarding stairs, the rear door of the Maybach clicked open.
Eleanor Vance stumbled out into the driving snow. She wore no coat—only a thin, prison-issue orange jumpsuit beneath a torn cardigan. Her bare feet were shoved into paper slippers that immediately soaked through with freezing slush. She looked ninety years old, her hair wild and matted, her face smeared with mascara and snot.
"Emma!" Eleanor shrieked, falling to her knees in the snow, reaching out with trembling, claw-like hands. "Emma, tell them! Tell them you're my daughter! Give him the sample so they let me go!"
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Emma stopped three feet from her mother, looking down at the kneeling matriarch who had once ruled the Vance dynasty with an iron fist. There was no hatred in Emma’s eyes—only a profound, hollow pity.
"You called Lily a burden, Mother," Emma said, her voice cutting clearly through the roar of the jet engines. "Look at you now."
