Chapter 5 - THE FLIGHT OF THE RAT
The rain outside turned into a blinding sheet of ice as the temperature plummeted below freezing.
Chicago was locking its doors for the night,
but inside the Vitelli Tower,
the war had just begun.
Nico’s phone buzzed aggressively against the glass desk.
Boss,
we got a hit on Thorne’s private transponder,
Nico announced,
his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
His Gulfstream G650 just filed an emergency flight plan out of Midway Airport.
Destination,
Geneva,
Switzerland.
Estimated departure in twenty-two minutes.
Get the chopper ready on the roof,
I ordered,
grabbing my heavy cashmere overcoat and sliding my shoulder holster into place.
Load the Glock.
We're going to Switzerland.
Marcus Thorne is going to tell me where Alina is,
or he’s going to spend the rest of eternity feeding fish at the bottom of Lake Geneva.
What about Sophia,
Matteo asked,
stepping forward with a pleading look in his eyes.
She's sleeping upstairs,
I snapped.
You're going to stay right here,
Matteo.
You are going to guard her door yourself.
If a single hair on her head is harmed while I am gone,
I will personally execute you.
Matteo nodded,
swallowing his fear.
I understand,
Marco.
Bring Alina home.
I strode out of the study and took the private elevator straight to the rooftop helipad.
The twin-engine Eurocopter was already idling,
its rotors chopping the freezing night air into white mist.
Nico and two elite tactical guards were waiting inside,
dressed in black body armor with suppressed submachine guns across their laps.
I climbed into the cabin,
strapped myself in,
and signaled the pilot.
We lifted off vertically,
rising above the glowing neon canyons of downtown Chicago.
Below us,
the city lights stretched out like a galaxy of fallen stars.
Midway Airport’s private aviation terminal came into view ten minutes later.
Sitting on the tarmac,
its jet engines screaming with blue fire,
was Thorne’s luxury private jet.
It was already taxiing toward the active runway.
Cut him off,
I ordered the pilot over the headset.
Land right in front of his nose.
Sir,
that's a direct violation of FAA regulations,
the pilot protested.
Do you want to lose your license or do you want to lose your head,
I asked softly.
The pilot swallowed,
banked the helicopter sharply,
and plunged downward toward the asphalt runway.
We touched down hard,
tires screeching against the wet concrete directly in the path of the accelerating Gulfstream.
The jet slammed on its brakes,
sparks flying from its landing gear as it ground to a halt fifty feet from our rotor blades.
May you like
Nico shoved the cabin door open before the skids had even stopped vibrating.
Let's go hunting.
