Chapter 9 - Tarmac Ambush at LAX
The sirens were turned off as our six-vehicle convoy swept through the secured perimeter gate of Los Angeles International Airport.
The rain had followed us down from the mountains,
streaking across the windshield of the federal suburban in long,
shivering ribbons,
blurring the sea of blue and yellow runway lights that stretched across the tarmac.
Ahead of us,
idling on the private executive apron behind Terminal 4,
sat Victor Sterling's sleek,
pearl-white Gulfstream G650.
Its twin jet engines were already whining with a rising,
high-pitched scream,
spewing heat distortion into the damp night air,
ready to begin its taxi toward the main southern runway.
Parked beside the mobile boarding stairs were two black luxury SUVs,
their hazard lights blinking erratically.
Through the rain-streaked window,
I saw them.
Beatrice Vance was standing on the wet tarmac,
wearing a full-length mink coat over her evening gown,
her manicured hands clutching two large designer suitcases,
screaming hysterically at the corporate flight crew who were blocking the aircraft door.
Behind her stood Ryan,
drenched to the skin,
his tuxedo jacket soaked through,
pacing back and forth like a caged animal,
staring wildly at his cell phone screen,
which was buzzing with dozens of unanswered notifications.
On the top step of the boarding stairs stood Victor Sterling,
dressed in an immaculate charcoal-gray cashmere overcoat,
leaning heavily on his polished ebony cane,
staring down at Beatrice with cold,
unconcealed contempt.
Beside Sterling stood Dr.
Helena Cross,
holding the silver cryo-transport case tight against her ribs with both arms.
"Victor,
you cannot leave us here!"
Beatrice's shrill voice cut through the roar of the jet engines as our convoy screeched to a halt fifty yards away.
"My son gave you the biological sample!
We gave you the genetic material for your granddaughter!
You promised us safe passage to Zurich!
You promised us diplomatic immunity through your consular connections!"
"You gave me a ruined sample,
you hysterical old fool,"
Sterling sneered down at her,
his cultured European accent cutting through the noise like cold steel.
"The clinic in Geneva requires eighty milliliters of healthy marrow to perform the stem-cell culture,
not the pathetic drop Dr.
Cross managed to pull before the mother fled with the boy!
You promised me a seamless,
quiet extraction inside a private hotel suite!
Instead,
you brought down the entire Los Angeles police apparatus on my head!
You and your idiot son are radioactive,
Beatrice!
I wouldn't let you step foot on my aircraft if you paid me ten times your company's value!"
"You can't do this,
Victor!"
Ryan screamed,
running toward the bottom of the metal stairs,
reaching out to grab the railing.
"The police are coming!
They intercepted my security team in Topanga!
If they arrest me,
I'll tell the prosecutors everything!
I'll give them the offshore routing numbers!
I'll testify that this entire operation was conceived and financed by Aegis Bio-Holdings!"
Sterling's face turned to stone.
He signaled to the two private security guards standing at the top of the aircraft door.
"Push him down the stairs,"
Sterling ordered calmly,
"and close the cabin hatch.
Tell the pilot to initiate takeoff sequence immediately,
regardless of tower clearance."
Before the guard could take a single step forward,
the night exploded into dazzling light and sound.
Three federal utility vehicles surged across the tarmac,
tires throwing up massive walls of water,
boxing in the private jet from the front and rear,
cutting off any possible path toward the active taxiway.
Blinding searchlights mounted on the federal vehicles flared to life,
pinning Sterling,
Dr.
Cross,
Ryan,
and Beatrice in a crossfire of brilliant white illumination.
"Federal agents!
Do not move!"
Agent Henderson’s voice boomed through the tactical megaphone,
shattering the airport noise.
"Step away from the aircraft stairs!
Keep your hands visible!
Pilot,
shut down those engines immediately,
or you will be charged with felony evasion and obstruction of federal justice!"
Dozens of armed tactical agents poured from the vehicles,
rifles raised,
moving with fluid precision,
surrounding the stairs,
the private SUVs,
and the entrance to the plane.
Ryan froze,
his hands shaking violently,
his face completely devoid of color.
Beatrice dropped her designer luggage into the puddles,
screaming incoherently,
clutching her pearls as if they could shield her from the federal carbines leveled at her chest.
At the top of the stairs,
Dr.
Cross panicked.
Realizing that the silver cryo-transport case in her hands was the single piece of physical evidence that would put her behind bars for the rest of her natural life,
she turned toward the jet's engine intake,
preparing to hurl the metal container into the spinning turbine blades to destroy the biological proof forever.
"Cross,
don't move!"
my father shouted,
stepping out from behind the lead SUV,
his service weapon raised with two steady hands,
laser sight painting a brilliant crimson dot directly on the center of her forehead.
The doctor froze,
her fingers trembling around the latches of the case.
"Put the container down slowly,"
Dad said,
his voice low,
hard,
and completely devoid of compromise.
"You let that metal hit those blades,
and you will never see the outside of a federal penitentiary for as long as you draw breath."
Slowly,
shivering with cold and fear,
Dr.
Cross dropped to her knees on the metal stairs,
May you like
placing the silver case gently onto the landing,
raising her trembling hands into the blinding rain.
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