Chapter 7 - THE TIGHTENING NET8
Fourteen thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, the sky was a deep, starless black.
Inside the lavish, leather-lined cabin of the Gulfstream G650, Patricia Ferguson poured herself a glass of twenty-year-old single malt scotch. Her diamond rings sparkled under the soft, ambient cabin lighting. Her hair was immaculate, her composure restored.
Beside her on the suede sofa sat two leather briefcases containing bearer bonds, encrypted cold-storage crypto wallets, and four forged diplomatic passports under different names.
She picked up her satellite phone and dialed a number.
“Is it done?” Patricia asked, her voice smooth and devoid of anxiety.
A cold, mechanical voice replied from the other end of the line. “The estate has been cleared by local authorities. Gregory and Elena were intercepted by federal agents on the highway. Nicholas is in custody at the hospital.”
Patricia didn’t even blink. She took a slow sip of her drink.
“And the girl?” she asked.
“Abigail Gardner and her mother escaped the residence,” the voice replied. “They are currently under federal protection in Charlotte.”
Patricia sighed, a faint expression of mild disgust touching her lips. “Gregory was always so sloppy. He thought he could play tactical games with a military veteran. And Nicholas... what a useless, sniveling disappointment of a son.”
“What are your instructions regarding the assets in Charlotte?”
“Abandon them,” Patricia said without a second of hesitation. “Let Gregory take the fall for the domestic charges. His legal team will keep him out of prison for a few years, and by the time he gets out, I’ll be living under a new name on the Amalfi coast. Transfer the primary holding balances to the Zurich account immediately.”
“Understood, Mrs. Ferguson. Safe flight.”
Patricia disconnected the call, leaning her head back against the leather headrest, a quiet, victorious smile playing on her lips. She had built the Ferguson empire from nothing. She had used her husband’s social connections and her son’s weak-willed charm to gather hundreds of millions of dollars.
In her mind, Abigail Gardner was nothing more than an inconvenient bump on a long, profitable road.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic clatter echoed through the cabin floorboards.
The cabin lights flickered, turning from warm white to a harsh, flashing red.
The seatbelt sign chimed frantically.
The door to the cockpit opened, and the pilot, Henk Strydom, stepped out, his face pale and slick with sweat. He was no longer wearing his professional aviator cap.
“Mrs. Ferguson,” Strydom said, his voice tight with alarm. “We have a problem.”
Patricia frowned, setting her glass down on the mahogany table. “What kind of problem? We are over international waters.”
“Look out your window,” Strydom said.
Patricia stood up, walking toward the oval window on the left side of the aircraft.
Through the dark night sky, less than fifty feet from their wingtip, sat the terrifying, razor-sharp silhouette of an F-22 Raptor stealth fighter jet. Its twin engines glowed with an eerie blue afterburner, and on its side, the star-and-stripe insignia of the United States Air Force was lit brightly.
Patricia’s heart dropped into her stomach. “They can’t force us down! We are in international airspace!”
Suddenly, the cockpit radio crackled, its speaker blaring loudly into the passenger cabin.
“Unidentified Gulfstream November-Seven-Zero-Four-Alpha, this is United States Air Force intercept flight Viper-One,” a cool, radio-static-laden voice commanded over the emergency frequency. “You are flying in violation of international maritime security protocols with an indicted fugitive on board. You are ordered to alter your course immediately to Naval Air Station Bermuda for emergency landing.”
“Tell them no!” Patricia screamed at the pilot, her icy composure completely shattering into frantic rage. “Tell them we are a private civilian flight! We have diplomatic clearance!”
“I can’t, Mrs. Ferguson!” Strydom yelled back, panic rising in his chest. “Look on the right side!”
Patricia rushed across the cabin to the opposite window.
A second F-22 Raptor had pulled up alongside their right wingtip. The fighter jet banked slightly, revealing a full payload of air-to-air missiles mounted beneath its wings.
“ Gulfstream November-Seven-Zero-Four-Alpha,” the Air Force pilot repeated, his tone completely flat and unyielding. “If you do not execute a thirty-degree left bank toward Bermuda within ten seconds, we are authorized to disable your engines. Acknowledge immediately.”
Patricia stared at the lethal war machine floating inches from her window.
For the first time in her life, her money, her political connections, her social status, and her cold, calculating intelligence were utterly worthless.
She was twenty thousand feet in the air, surrounded by the full, terrifying weight of the military machine her husband had tried so casually to dismiss.
Strydom didn't wait for her permission. He sprinted back into the cockpit, grabbed the radio transmitter, and screamed into the mic: “Viper-One, this is Gulfstream Seven-Zero-Four-Alpha! We are complying! We are altering course to Bermuda immediately! Do not shoot!”
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Patricia collapsed into her leather seat, her hands trembling so violently that her scotch glass knocked over, spilling dark liquid across her tailored white designer pants.
The trap had finally closed.
