Chapter 6 - The Terminal Breach
Z
The sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the private terminal at Santiago de Compostela Airport were eerily quiet at four o'clock in the morning. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the storm was finally beginning to lose its fury, transitioning from a violent gale into a steady, somber drizzle that washed over the dark runways.
In a secure conference room on the second floor, Laura Vance sat at a polished oak table. Her green sweater was finally dry, though the exhaustion of the past six hours weighed heavily on her shoulders. Beside her, Captain Andrew Vance was on his mobile phone, speaking to the airline's executive board in Chicago, his voice firm as he dictated the unconditional terms of his official incident report.
Across the table, Inspector Alvarez closed a thick manila folder and pushed a glass of water toward Laura.
"The Guardia Civil cyber-division in Madrid has completed their preliminary verification of your flash drive," Alvarez said, her stern face softening slightly. "The digital footprint is undeniable. The remote command packet originated from a modified satellite transceiver concealed inside Director Sterling’s carry-on luggage. It was hardwired to spoof the Boeing's secondary flight management computer."
Laura nodded slowly, rubbing her temples. "And the first officer?"
"Mark Ridley is awake at the university hospital," Alvarez replied. "The doctors managed to administer the reversal agent in time. He has already given a sworn statement confirming that Mr. Sterling entered the cockpit briefly during the pre-boarding phase under the guise of an executive safety inspection."
"So it's over," Andrew said, ending his call and slumping into the chair beside Laura. "The board of directors just held an emergency midnight session. Sterling has been terminated from all executive positions. Federal warrants are being issued in New York and Washington for attempted mass murder, corporate espionage, and federal wire fraud."
"It's not over until the Pentagon clears the Aviano incident," Laura said quietly, staring down at her scarred hands. "David’s official record still says he died due to pilot negligence. That lie is carved into his headstone at Arlington."
Before Alvarez could answer, the heavy glass doors of the private terminal shattered with a deafening crash on the floor below.
A sharp, staccato burst of automatic gunfire echoed up the stairwell, followed by the screams of airport security guards.
Laura’s combat instincts kicked in instantaneously. She was on her feet before the echoes of the gunshots died, flipping the heavy oak conference table onto its side to create a defensive barrier facing the doorway.
"Get down!" Laura yelled, shoving Andrew and Alvarez toward the concrete corner of the room.
"What is happening?" Alvarez shouted, drawing her standard-issue 9mm service pistol from her holster. "The police transport took Sterling away twenty minutes ago!"
"They didn't take Cross," Laura said, her eyes scanning the room for secondary exits. "The private security contractors weren't processed through the main police convoy. They were held in the terminal annex!"
Through the frosted glass partition of the conference room, Laura saw the shadows of three men moving swiftly down the hallway. They were moving in a disciplined, high-low tactical sweep—military precision, suppressors attached to their submachine guns.
Cross hadn't escaped to run. He had come back to finish the cleanup.
"Alvarez, how many rounds do you have?" Laura whispered, keeping her body low behind the overturned table.
"One magazine. Fifteen rounds," Alvarez whispered back, her hands steady despite the sudden surge of adrenaline.
"Give it to me," Laura commanded softly.
Alvarez hesitated for a fraction of a second, looking into Laura’s cold, lethal eyes. Without another word, the Spanish inspector racked the slide and handed the pistol grip-first to the former fighter pilot.
The heavy wooden door of the conference room was kicked open with violent force.
A tactical flash grenade bounced across the carpet.
"Cover your eyes!" Laura screamed.
A blinding flash and a concussive bang tore through the room, blowing out the remaining interior glass. Before the white smoke could clear, the first contractor stepped through the doorway, his weapon raised to sweep the room.
Laura didn't wait. She rose from behind the oak table like a ghost, leveled the pistol with two hands, and fired two controlled, double-tap shots into the contractor’s chest. The heavy rounds hammered through his soft body armor, dropping him instantly onto the threshold.
The second contractor pivoted toward her, his weapon barking in suppressed bursts, sending splinters of wood and plaster raining down over Andrew and Alvarez.
Laura dropped flat against the floor, rolling to the right into the open doorway of an adjoining storage closet. As the contractor stepped past the table to clear his line of sight, Laura reached out from the darkness, grabbed the barrel of his weapon, forced it upward into the ceiling tiles, and drove the heel of her boot directly into his knee with sickening force.
The man collapsed with a sharp cry. Laura wrenched the submachine gun from his grip, swung the stock around, and slammed it across his jaw, knocking him unconscious cold.
Silence descended upon the smoke-filled hallway.
Laura stepped out of the storage room, holding the captured submachine gun at low-ready, her eyes sweeping the dim corridor.
At the end of the hall, standing near the shattered terminal entrance, Victor Cross stood frozen in the rain blowing through the broken glass. His jacket was torn, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead, his sidearm pointed directly at Laura.
"You should have stayed in the passenger seat, Major," Cross breathed, his chest heaving. "You should have let the plane go down."
"David trusted you, Cross," Laura said, her voice echoing through the ruined corridor like a death sentence. "You were his survival instructor at the academy. And you helped his father kill him."
Cross’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Laura didn't flinch. She fired a single, surgical round through the weapon in his hand. The pistol shattered into pieces, sending Cross spinning to his knees, clutching his mangled, bleeding fingers with a scream of agony.
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Laura walked down the long corridor, her boots crunching over the broken glass, stopping two feet from where Cross knelt. She rested the smoking barrel of the submachine gun gently against his forehead.
"It's over, Victor," Laura said, her voice softer than a whisper. "Tell the Department of Justice everything you know... or pray that Richard Sterling’s private jet comes back for you."
