Chapter 8 - The Hangar of Shadows
The private hangar at the metropolitan airport was a vast, cavernous space filled with the roar of jet engines from the runway outside. A sleek, white Gulfstream cargo jet sat in the center of the concrete floor, its rear loading ramp lowered.
Forklifts moved back and forth, loading large, wooden crates marked with biohazard and medical equipment symbols.
Daniel and I stood in the darkened observation office on the second floor, looking down at the activity below. We were dressed in simple airport ground crew uniforms, our weapons hidden beneath our bulky jackets.
"The flight is scheduled to depart in thirty minutes," Daniel said, checking his watch. "The pilots are already on board. I checked the manifest—the cargo was cleared by a customs agent who went on sudden 'medical leave' this morning."
"The Architect is already inside," I said, pointing to a small office near the back of the hangar. "He's not the type to wait in a hotel. He wants to be close to his exit."
"How do you want to play this?"
"We cut the fuel lines to the jet first," I said. "If he realizes something is wrong, we can't let him take off. Once the plane is grounded, we move on the office."
"I'll handle the fuel lines," Daniel said. "I know the layout of the ground systems. You go for the office."
"Daniel, be careful. The men guarding him won't be like Vanessa's street thugs. They're professional mercenaries."
"I know," he said, offering me a quick, firm kiss on the forehead. "See you at the gate."
He slipped out of the office, disappearing into the shadows of the catwalk.
I took a deep breath, checking my weapon one last time. The weight of six years of hiding, of fear, and of grief was concentrated in this moment. The man who had destroyed my life was only fifty yards away.
I slipped down the stairs, moving silently between the stacks of cargo crates. The smell of aviation fuel was thick in the air, mixing with the cold draft from the open hangar doors.
As I approached the back office, the door opened.
A tall man in a dark trench coat stepped out, his face obscured by a low-profile cap. He was carrying a small leather briefcase. Behind him stood two men with compact submachine guns.
The Architect.
Even from forty yards away, I recognized his posture. He was a ghost I had chased through three different countries, a man who had left a trail of blood and ruined lives in his wake.
"The fuel pressure is dropping," one of the guards said, looking at a tablet in his hand. "Sir, we have an issue with the plane's loading systems."
The Architect stopped, his head tilting as he listened to the roar of the engines. "It's a trap. Clear the area. We use the backup vehicle."
They began to move toward the side exit.
"Not today, Architect," I called out, stepping into the light of the hangar.
The two guards immediately raised their weapons, but I was faster.
I fired twice, the suppressors on my weapon coughing softly. The first guard spun and fell, his weapon firing a useless burst into the concrete ceiling. The second guard dove behind a forklift, returning fire.
A hail of bullets tore through the plastic wrapping of a cargo crate beside me, showering me with white packing foam.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the side of the hangar.
A heavy airport tug vehicle slammed into the side of the forklift, pinning the second guard against the metal frame. Daniel sat in the driver's seat of the tug, his face grim as he threw the vehicle into reverse and backed away.
"Elena, go!" he shouted.
May you like
The Architect had already reached the side exit, his leather briefcase clutched tight to his chest.
I ran after him, my boots pounding against the concrete as I burst through the exit into the pouring rain of the tarmac.
