Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at Black Ridge
Z
Black Ridge Airfield was a decommissioned regional strip tucked into the dense, snow-covered pine forests near the Canadian border. The freezing rain was coming down in sheets, turning the tarmac into a treacherous sheet of black ice.
At the far end of the runway, a twin-engine Gulfstream private jet sat with its turbines whining, ready for takeoff.
Inside the perimeter hangar, Vance Krenshaw stood by the open cargo bay of an armored SUV, his right thigh heavily bandaged from our firefight at the harbor safe house. He was barking orders at four heavily armed private mercenaries who were loading black duffel bags filled with bearer bonds and encrypted hard drives into the aircraft.
"Hurry up!" Krenshaw snapped, his British accent ragged with pain and panic. "The FAA flight plan is cleared for another twenty minutes! If we miss this departure window, federal interdiction will have the airspace locked down!"
Suddenly, the floodlights illuminating the tarmac were violently extinguished.
CLACK.
The entire airfield was plunged into blinding darkness, save for the rhythmic blue strobe of the jet's wingtip lights.
"Contacts! Perimeter breach!" one of the mercenaries screamed, raising his assault rifle toward the tree line.
Before the contractor could acquire a target, a high-powered thermal laser painted his chest with an emerald dot.
THWIP.
A single suppressed sniper round took the operative down into the snow.
From the darkness of the surrounding woods emerged a joint tactical team: FBI Hostage Rescue units, federal marshals, and a detachment of Army Special Operations soldiers commanded by Colonel Elise Ward.
And walking down the center of the taxiway, clad in full tactical combat gear, was me.
Beside me, riding in a modified tracked combat utility vehicle, was Marcus Reed, operating the heavy spotlight and thermal optics.
Marcus hit the high-intensity searchlight. A blinding beam of 50,000 lumens slammed directly onto Krenshaw and his remaining men, pinning them against the fuselage of the jet like insects under glass.
"Vance Krenshaw!" my voice boomed through the tactical PA system. "Drop your weapons and step away from the aircraft! You are completely surrounded!"
Krenshaw shielded his eyes against the blinding glare, his face twisted in a feral snarl. He grabbed a compact submachine gun from his belt and leveled it directly at my chest.
"I should have burned that hospital in Landstuhl when I had the chance, Bennett!" Krenshaw roared over the whine of the jet engines. "You think you can take me in alive?"
"I don't care if you're alive or dead, Krenshaw," I said, continuing to advance through the snow, my rifle held firmly at my shoulder. "You killed five of my soldiers in that valley. You took Marcus’s legs. You took four years of my life. Make your move."
Krenshaw pulled the trigger.
The burst of 9mm rounds sparked wildly against the armored hood of Marcus’s vehicle.
In that same split second, three precision rounds from my rifle hit Krenshaw—one in the right shoulder, one in the right elbow, and one shattering the submachine gun in his grip.
Krenshaw was thrown backward onto the frozen tarmac, his weapon skittering away into the slush. His remaining three mercenaries immediately threw their rifles into the snow and dropped flat onto their stomachs, hands clasped behind their heads.
The FBI tactical team swarmed the tarmac, zip-tying the contractors and securing the aircraft.
I walked up to Krenshaw, who was lying on his back in the freezing slush, clutching his shattered shoulder, gasping for air as blood stained the white snow crimson beneath him.
Marcus rolled the tracked vehicle up right beside us, looking down at the broken mercenary.
"You're not dying today, Krenshaw," Marcus said, his voice cold and devoid of pity. "You're going to sit in a federal courtroom. You're going to testify against every corrupt general, every foreign intelligence cutout, and every politician who bought your services. You're going to spend the rest of your life staring at a concrete wall in Florence, Colorado, thinking about Al-Mazir."
Krenshaw looked up at me, coughing, a mixture of agony and disbelief in his eyes. "Your father... Arthur Bennett... was a stubborn bastard."
"He was an honorable man," I said, looking down at him without blinking. "Something you never understood."
Colonel Ward walked up beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Federal agents have secured the hard drives. Every foreign asset, every transaction, every name is in our custody. The network is completely dismantled, Captain."
May you like
I lowered my rifle, looking up into the freezing night sky. The clouds were parting, revealing a canopy of brilliant, cold stars over the Adirondacks.
The war that started in the burning sands of Al-Mazir was finally over.
