Chapter 49 - Cold Steel on the Tarmac
Ethan moved like a shadow through the hangar’s auxiliary utility trench, slipping toward the Gulfstream’s undercarriage while Margaret climbed out through the maintenance hatch behind the heavy hydraulic fuel pumps.
The rain beat a relentless, deafening tattoo against the corrugated steel roof of the hangar. The guards were focused entirely on the outer gates, expecting an assault from the perimeter road, completely oblivious to the ghosts already standing on the polished epoxy floor behind them.
Ethan reached the landing gear bay of the private jet. He pulled the steel crowbar from his belt, jammed it into the primary hydraulic manifold that controlled the aircraft’s steering gear, and wrenched it with all his body weight.
*SNAP.*
High-pressure hydraulic fluid sprayed out in an aerosol mist, soaking the concrete. The jet’s ground-steering system was completely disabled; the multi-million-dollar aircraft was grounded.
Inside the executive lounge, an alarm bell chimed on Clara’s tablet.
"Pressure loss in the Gulfstream’s main gear," Clara said, her voice instantly sharp and defensive. "Senator, we have a breach on the floor."
Before Sterling could stand, the main power breaker box on the hangar wall exploded in a violent shower of blue sparks.
Margaret had dropped an iron pipe directly across the 480-volt commercial bus bars.
The hangar plunged into pitch-black darkness.
"Kill them!" Sterling’s voice lost all its political polish, turning into a raw, feral scream from inside the glass room. "Security, weapons free! Protect the asset!"
The emergency battery floodlights flickered on, casting long, grotesque shadows across the cavernous space. Two tactical guards charged toward the medical cooler where Noah’s prospective extraction kit sat.
*BOOM!*
The thunderous roar of Margaret’s 12-gauge shotgun echoed off the steel girders like an artillery blast. The heavy buckshot struck the industrial tire rack directly above the guards, sending hundreds of pounds of aircraft tires crashing down onto them in a crushing avalanche of rubber and steel.
Margaret stepped out from behind the fuel pump, racking the slide with a brutal, mechanical clatter. *Clack-clack.*
Clara burst through the glass door of the lounge, pulling a sleek Glock 19 from beneath her blazer, her eyes manic. "You old bitch! You have no idea what you’re destroying! This network runs the country!"
Margaret didn't waste a breath arguing. She leveled the shotgun at Clara’s chest.
Clara fired twice. One round clipped Margaret’s left shoulder, spinning her back against the steel wall, tearing a hot line of fire through her flesh. But Margaret didn't fall. Driven by three generations of unyielding, protective fury, she brought the barrel back up and pulled the trigger.
The blast caught Clara in the shoulder, throwing her backward across the polished floor, her pistol clattering away into the darkness.
Margaret advanced, her boots splashing through pools of hydraulic fluid and blood. She stood over Clara, who was writhing on the floor, clutching her shattered collarbone.
"Where is the master key to the flight data files?" Margaret demanded, pressing the smoking barrel of the shotgun against Clara’s forehead.
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"It doesn't... it doesn't matter," Clara gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of her lips, her eyes filled with spiteful triumph. "Look at the monitors... Margaret. You’re too late. The live feed... was never for Sterling."
***
