Chapter 3 - Landing in the Storm
The Gulfstream touched down on the private airstrip north of Chicago with barely a whisper, cutting through the driving autumn rain like a scalpel. Within three minutes of wheels-down, we transferred directly into a matte-black utility van idling near the tarmac perimeter.
Marcus slid behind the steering wheel, while Maya fired up her mobile intelligence station in the back, monitoring police scanner frequencies and municipal traffic cams.
“Hospital status?” I asked, staring out the rain-streaked window at the blurring neon lights of the highway.
“Elise is currently secured in a private VIP pediatric suite on the fourth floor,” Maya reported, her eyes glued to her monitors. “Private security detail stationed outside her door—not hospital guards, but private contractors hired by Ryan’s family law firm. They’re restricting all visitors, including Ryan himself at times. Tessa and Morgan have been holding press briefings in the lobby, playing the grieving, devoted aunts whose niece suffered a ‘tragic playground accident.’”
My grip on the armrest tightened until my knuckles turned white. A playground accident. Eleven fractured bones—both arms, three ribs, a shattered collarbone, and a fractured femur—inflicted by a solid metal bar wielded by two women who baked cookies for charity.
“We split our objectives,” I ordered, turning to face the team in the back of the van. “Marcus, you and the extraction unit secure the hospital. Neutralize the private guards without firing a shot, get Elise out of that room, and transfer her into the custody of a military medical transport team I’ve got waiting at a secondary rendezvous point. She needs immediate surgical intervention.”
“Understood, Captain,” Marcus nodded, checking his loadout. “And you?”
“I’m going to Shoreline Drive,” I said coldly. “Tessa and Morgan said they were going to ‘deal with me’ when I got back. I want to save them the trip.”
“Negative, Captain, you shouldn't go alone—” Maya started to object.
“It’s not a solo op, Maya,” I cut her off, my voice brooking zero argument. “You’re coming with me to pull every financial, legal, and digital shred of evidence from their home servers. We need the paper trail of bribes, custody fraud, and asset concealment before their lawyers can wipe the hard drives. We strike the hospital and the estate simultaneously at 0200 hours. Synchronize watches.”
The four glowing digital faces on our tactical watches clicked over in unison.
May you like
11:45 PM.
Two hours and fifteen minutes until Tessa and Morgan’s carefully constructed world of wealth, privilege, and lies was blown straight off its foundation.
