Chapter 12: The Tarmac Chase
The black federal tactical vans tore through the perimeter gates of Dulles International Airport, authorized by an emergency national security warrant signed directly by the attorney general's office. Tires squealed against the hot asphalt as the convoy raced across the sprawling tarmac, weaving between parked commercial airliners toward a private Gulfstream jet idling on the far southern runway with its jet turbines already whining at takeoff speed.
Inside the lead van, Evelyn gripped the handle of her assault rifle, her eyes locked on the sleek white jet. Beside her, Agent Thorne checked his radio frequencies, coordinating local air traffic control to hold all runway clearance permissions.
""They're starting the taxi sequence!"" Thorne shouted over the roar of the engines. ""If that bird hits V-rotation speed, we won't be able to ground it without firing live anti-aircraft ordnance!""
""Then we cut them off on the ground,"" Evelyn replied decisively.
The van surged ahead, pulling out of the convoy formation and cutting directly across the tarmac in a reckless intercept arc designed to block the Gulfstream’s nose gear. The driver slammed on the brakes, sending the heavy vehicle into a controlled skid that spun the side doors directly toward the private jet's path.
The Gulfstream slammed its brakes, screeching to a halt a mere twenty feet from the tactical van, its twin jet engines kicking up a gale-force whirlwind of exhaust and loose debris. The boarding staircase lowered immediately, and two private security guards rushed out, weapons drawn, only to find themselves staring down the barrels of federal assault rifles held by a dozen armed marshals who had fanned out in a tactical wedge.
""Drop your weapons! Federal agents!"" Thorne bellowed over the roar of the jet wash.
The private guards froze, looking at the overwhelming firepower surrounding them, and slowly lowered their weapons to the tarmac, raising their hands in surrender.
Evelyn kicked open the van door and sprinted up the folding metal stairs of the private jet, her boots clattering against the interior steps. She pushed open the cabin door, sweeping her rifle into the plush leather interior.
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Sitting in the first-class executive seat, nursing a glass of scotch with an expression of cold resignation, was Julian Vance. He looked older than Evelyn remembered, his silver hair neatly combed, his tailored Italian suit entirely unruffled by the chaos outside. He took a slow sip of his drink and looked up at Evelyn without a trace of fear.
""Well, Sergeant,"" Julian said smoothly, his voice calm and unbothered. ""I must admit, you are far more persistent than my sister. I always told Eleanor you were the dangerous one in the family.""
