Chapter 11 - The Race to the Airstrip
The engine of Julian's sedan roared to life as Mark Miller took the passenger seat, directing Julian down the winding rural highway at breakneck speed. Martha held Lily securely in the back seat, the toddler sleeping peacefully despite the high-speed pursuit.
"How far is the airstrip, Mark?" Julian shouted over the roar of the wind rushing through the half-rolled window.
"About twenty-five miles north through the county line," Mark replied, tapping coordinates into a portable GPS device. "Vance's private charter is scheduled for takeoff at two o'clock sharp. If they clear international airspace, Interpol won't be able to touch them for years."
Julian gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white. The humiliation and grief that had paralyzed him all morning dissolved into a fierce, protective determination. He wasn't just fighting for his grandfather's legacy anymore; he was fighting for justice for Sarah and safety for his daughter.
"Why didn't the local police catch on to their scam sooner?" Julian asked, navigating a sharp curve in the road.
"Because Clara and Arthur are meticulous," Mark explained, flipping through the pages of his binder. "They use shell corporations, forged medical examiner reports, and paid off local officials to make every murder look like natural cardiac arrest. Sarah was the first one who managed to hide her financial records before they could wipe her servers."
Martha leaned forward from the back seat, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Sarah knew something was wrong the night before she died. She told me Clara was mixing bitter almond oil into her evening tea."
Mark nodded grimly. "Cyanide poisoning. It leaves traces that mimic a massive heart attack if the autopsy isn't performed by an independent federal pathologist. That's why Clara fought so hard to block any medical reviews."
Twenty minutes later, the dense pine trees thinned out, revealing a desolate private airstrip surrounded by chain-link fences. Parked near the end of the asphalt runway sat a sleek white twin-engine jet, its turbines already spinning with a high-pitched whine.
Julian slammed on the brakes, sliding the sedan to a halt right beside the perimeter security gate. A black limousine was parked just fifty yards away near the boarding stairs of the jet.
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"There they are," Mark said, throwing open his car door. "Let's move before they close the cabin door."
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