Chapter 62 - The Steel Cage
The Gulfstream’s nose gear was lifting when the pilot saw us.
Through the blur of the rain and our high beams, I saw the cockpit windshield—two figures in dark aviation headsets frantically hauling back on the controls. The starboard engine choked, its thrust reversers deploying in a violent, shuddering blast of hydraulic spray. The left wing dipped dangerously, the titanium tip dragging across the asphalt and sending a shower of orange sparks fifty feet into the air.
Vincent spun the steering wheel, drifting our armored truck into a broadside skid that brought our reinforced bumper to a halt less than ten feet from the jet's nose cone.
The silence that followed was suffocating, punctuated only by the dying hum of the turbines and the steady hiss of rain sizzling against hot engine cowlings.
I kicked my door open before the truck had settled on its shocks, the rifle held tight against my shoulder. The damp runway air smelled of burnt kerosene and rubber. Behind us, two more SUVs from Vincent's personal security detail cleared the hole in the fence, their tires screaming as they formed an iron horseshoe around the grounded plane.
"Salvatore, cordon the perimeter!" Vincent shouted, stepping into the rain behind me. His sidearm was drawn, lowered at a low-ready angle, his eyes scanning the tinted passenger windows of the aircraft. "Nobody leaves the tarmac. If the tower calls the Carabinieri, tell them it's a private mechanical quarantine under corporate code four."
The forward cabin door of the jet remained sealed. No air-stair dropped. No lights flickered within the passenger compartment.
"Maya!" I screamed, taking two steps toward the landing gear before Vincent’s heavy hand clamped onto my jacket sleeve, pulling me back behind the cover of the truck’s engine block.
"Wait," he warned, his voice dropped to a gravelly rasp. "Look at the seal on the hatch. It’s an airtight pressure lock. If they're running a pressurized isolation scrub, the door can only be released from the external maintenance panel."
"They're not running a scrub, Vincent, they're running out the clock!"
I tore my arm from his grip, my heart pounding so violently against my ribs that my vision blurred. Five years. For five years, I had held that little girl while she cried through thunderstorms in a tiny, drafty apartment in Marseilles, told her stories about stars when we didn't have enough money to leave the heater running, kissed her scraped knees and taught her how to write her name. She wasn't an heir to a bloodline or a chip in a syndicate war. She was my baby.
I sprinted toward the nose of the plane, ignoring Vincent’s sharp curse behind me.
At the base of the fuselage, beneath the forward entrance door, a small red access latch hung slightly ajar. I jammed the barrel of the rifle into the gap and wrenched upward with all my weight. The metal latch popped with a sharp pneumatic hiss. Inside the recessed compartment was an emergency manual lever painted safety yellow.
I gripped the handle and pulled it down until the internal seals cracked.
A rush of pressurized air hissed outward, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of clean linen, hospital-grade antiseptic, and the faint, sweet trace of vanilla—the scent of Maya’s favorite travel lotion.
The heavy door pivoted outward and drifted down on hydraulic dampeners, its steps unfolding until they struck the wet tarmac with a dull metallic clank.
"Stay behind me, Elena," Vincent commanded, stepping in front of me as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his weapon raised, his eyes narrowed into slits.
"She’s my daughter," I said, cold fury steadying my hands as I brought my rifle up to match his pace. "You don't go first."
Together, we climbed the narrow metal stairs into the belly of the plane.
The interior was silent. The cabin lights were dimmed to a low amber hue. The wide cream leather seats were immaculate, the mahogany folding tables polished to a high mirror finish.
And in the very last row, strapped securely into an oversized captain’s chair with a heavy wool blanket pulled up to her chin, sat a tiny girl clutching a faded blue stuffed rabbit.
"Maya," I choked out, the weapon slipping an inch from my shoulder.
The little girl blinked against the dim light, rubbing her eyes with a sleeve that was far too long for her tiny arms. She didn't look terrified. She looked exhausted, her dark brown curls tangled around her forehead, her large, intelligent eyes—so identical to the man standing beside me—wide with confusion.
"Mommy?" she whispered, her voice cracking with sleep. "The tall man with the white hair said we were going to see the garden."
Vincent froze on the carpeted aisle. Every muscle in his broad frame locked solid.
"What tall man, Maya?" Vincent asked, his voice shaking with a terrifying, unnatural gentleness. "Who told you that?"
May you like
The little girl pointed her small finger toward the back of the aircraft, past the galley partition, toward the locked door of the private master stateroom.
"The grandfather," she whispered. "He has the same ring as you."
