Chapter 5 - The Shadow at Gary Airfield
The storm raged with unchecked fury as we crossed the state line into Indiana.
The industrial landscape of Gary was a dismal graveyard of rusted steel mills, towering smoke stacks, and abandoned oil refineries outlined against the black night sky.
Marco drove the Continental at over a hundred miles an hour down the deserted stretch of Industrial Highway, the tires throwing up massive sheets of water. In the backseat, two of my top enforcers, Luca and Dominic, silently checked their automatic weapons.
I sat in the front passenger seat, staring into the dark road ahead.
My brother was alive.
For four years, I had carried the heavy burden of his memory. I had visited his empty tomb every year on his birthday, leaving a bottle of his favorite Irish whiskey beside the granite headstone. I had blamed myself for his death, believing that if I had been a better older brother, if I hadn't pushed him so hard to conform to the family business, he wouldn't have taken that car onto Interstate 94.
It had all been a lie. He had abandoned me. He had stolen from our father. He had allied himself with the woman who poisoned our family. And now, he was prepared to sell our family's survival to the Russian Syndicate just to fund his decadent, miserable life.
"Ten minutes to the airfield, boss," Marco reported, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight. "My contact inside the airfield tower confirms a private Gulfstream N404-MR is currently sitting on Runway 2, engines idling. They're prepping for immediate clearance to takeoff."
"Did you contact the airport authority?" I asked.
"Negative," Marco replied grimly. "The airport manager is on the Russian payroll. If we notify authority, the Russians will know we're coming."
"Good," I said, slipping a fresh magazine into my Kimber. "We don't need authorities. We just need five minutes."
We turned off the highway onto a dark, unpaved service road that ran parallel to the airport's chain-link perimeter fence. Half a mile ahead, through the dense veil of rain, I could see the high-intensity floodlights illuminating the tarmac of Gary Regional Airport.
A sleek, black Gulfstream jet sat near the edge of a private hangar. On the tarmac surrounding the aircraft were three black SUVs. Men in long leather coats were patrolling the perimeter, holding submachine guns under dark umbrellas.
"Russians," Luca muttered from the back seat, leaning forward. "That's Viktor Sokolov's crew from Brighton Park."
Sokolov. My family's fiercest rival in the Midwest.
"Roman didn't just sell the ledger," I realized aloud, my teeth grinding together. "He invited Sokolov here to finalize the transaction. He's handing the keys to Chicago over to the Russians in exchange for safe passage to Dubai."
"How do you want to handle this, boss?" Marco asked, pulling the car to a stop behind an overgrown row of discarded shipping containers fifty yards from the fence.
I looked at the jet. I looked at the armed guards.
Then I looked down at my watch. 11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes before midnight.
"We don't negotiate," I said, my voice as cold as the rainwater dripping down the windshield. "Marco, drive the Continental straight through the perimeter gate and ram the lead SUV. Luca, Dominic, take out the perimeter guards on the left. I'm going up the jet's boarding stairs."
"Understood, boss," Marco grinned—a savage, predatory smile.
"Hold on," I instructed.
Marco slammed his foot onto the accelerator. The heavy Continental roared to life, its four-hundred-horsepower engine screaming as we burst through the trees, slammed through the chain-link fence in a shower of sparks, and launched onto the tarmac.
The Russian guards shouted in surprise, raising their weapons.
CRASH!
The Continental’s reinforced front bumper slammed directly into the side of the lead Russian SUV, flipping the heavy vehicle onto its side in a shower of glass and twisted metal.
Before the remaining guards could react, Luca and Dominic kicked their doors open, firing silenced submachine guns into the chaotic night. Three Russian enforcers crumpled onto the wet pavement.
I burst out of the passenger side, unheeding of the gunfire ricocheting off the pavement around my boots. I ran low, using the secondary SUV as cover, advancing rapidly toward the boarding stairs of the Gulfstream jet.
A tall Russian gunman stepped out from behind the boarding stairs, raising an AK-47. I didn't slow down. I raised my Kimber and fired twice. Two 45-caliber rounds struck him in the center of his chest, dropping him backward onto the slick tarmac.
I bounded up the metal stairs three at a time, grabbed the interior doorframe, and swung myself into the luxurious, leather-trimmed cabin of the jet.
The cabin was illuminated by soft ambient lighting. Sitting at a mahogany table near the back of the aircraft was a man holding a silver briefcase. On the table lay an open black ledger, a glass of crystal vodka, and a passport.
The man turned around in terror.
I froze.
The face was older, lined with dark circles under the eyes, a jagged scar running along his jawline from a long-ago car crash. But there was no mistaking those sharp, arrogant blue eyes.
My brother.
"Roman," I whispered.
Roman stared at me, his face turning as white as a sheet. The glass of vodka slipped from his fingers, shattering across the plush cream carpet.
"Adrian..." Roman breathed, his voice trembling. "How... how did you find me?"
May you like
I took two slow steps down the aisle of the plane, the gun in my hand pointed directly at his heart.
"A seven-year-old girl pointed at a piece of paper," I said softly. "And she told me my brother was a ghost."
