CHAPTER 26 Declan
The interior of the Gulfstream is stripped of its usual luxury. The heavy mahogany table is folded away, replaced by two open Pelican cases filled with tactical hardware.
But today, the cold certainty is fractured.
I press the last round into the magazine and set it inside the pouch on my plate carrier. I look out the small oval window. The dense green canopy of the Bahamas has been replaced by the gray, overcast sky of the American Northeast.
"We are forty minutes out from the drop zone, Dec."
The pilot’s voice crackles over the internal comms. It isn't the same pilot from the Miami extraction. It is a contracted operative Leo pulled from a secure roster in Montreal.
"Copy," I reply, my voice flat. "Confirm the ground team is in position."
"Leo says the perimeter is set. Four snipers in the tree line, two breach teams waiting on your signal. You're walking into a heavy footprint, man. The thermal satellite picked up at least twenty heat signatures around the primary hangar."
I pick up my suppressed M4 rifle, checking the optics. Twenty men. It is a significant escalation from the usual security detail Evans employs. He isn't just moving the money; he is expecting a war.
"They are protecting forty million dollars in physical assets," I state, securing the sling of the rifle over my shoulder. "The footprint is expected."
"Yeah, well, Leo also said the communications coming out of that hangar are completely dark. No radio chatter. No cell pings. They are operating under complete radio silence."
A faint, uneasy tension tightens the muscles in my back. Radio silence is a disciplined tactical maneuver. It isn't the chaotic, panicked behavior of a corrupt accountant trying to flee the country. It is the behavior of a professional military unit waiting for an ambush.
I ignore the tension. I cannot afford to analyze the variables until I am on the ground.
I pull my secure satellite phone from the pocket of my tactical pants. I stare at the blank screen.
I left Maeve on the island exactly three hours ago.
She is secure in the caretaker's compound, surrounded by reinforced concrete and a closed-circuit thermal grid.
The caretaker is a former Marine who owes me his life; he will not let anyone near that house.
She is as safe as she can possibly be in this world.
But the memory of her face when I told her she was staying behind is burning a hole directly through my operational focus.
If you leave me here, and you don't come back... I will never forgive you.
She didn't beg me to stay. She didn't cry. She weaponized her anger to hide the fact that she is terrified of losing me. It is the exact same coping mechanism I use, mirrored back at me with a chaotic, beautiful intensity.
I press my thumb against the edge of the phone. I want to call the compound. I want to hear her voice, just to verify that the silence on the island hasn't consumed her.
I shove the phone back into my pocket.
If I hear her voice right now, I will order the pilot to turn the plane around.
"Ten minutes to the jump," the pilot announces, the pitch of the engines changing as the plane begins a rapid descent. "We are dropping you three miles north of the airstrip. You'll have to hike in through the snow."
"Understood."
I stand up, checking the seals on my plate carrier. My left shoulder pulls, a sharp ache radiating from the fresh sutures, but the pain is manageable. I pull a heavy black balaclava over my head, leaving only my eyes exposed, and step toward the rear of the cabin.
The red jump light flashes above the side door.
I grip the heavy handle, sliding the door open. The freezing air of upstate New York rushes into the cabin, a violent contrast to the tropical heat I left behind. The ground below is a blur of dark pine trees and white snow.
The light turns green.
I step out into the void.
The freefall lasts exactly twelve seconds before I pull the ripcord. The black tactical canopy deploys with a violent jerk, arresting my momentum and pulling the harness tight across my chest and thighs.
I steer the parachute toward a small clearing in the pines, hitting the deep snow with a heavy, rolling impact. I unclip the harness instantly, burying the black silk under a pile of snow to hide the drop zone.
I pull the M4 to my chest, my thumb resting near the safety, and begin the three-mile hike south.
The woods are dead quiet. The snow is knee-deep, slowing my pace, but the physical exertion is necessary. It burns off the lingering thoughts of the island, forcing my brain to focus entirely on the immediate environment.
Thirty minutes later, the tree line breaks.
I drop to a crouch, resting my knee in the snow, and raise the optics of my rifle to scan the objective.
The private airstrip is located in a shallow valley. A massive, corrugated steel hangar sits at the far end of the tarmac. There is a sleek, unmarked Gulfstream parked near the open doors of the hangar, its engines dark.
The pilot was right. The footprint is heavy.
I count twelve men patrolling the exterior perimeter. They are wearing white winter camouflage, moving in synchronized, overlapping pairs. They are carrying military-grade hardware, not the cheap submachine guns the cartel usually issues to its street-level enforcers.
I press the transmit button on my encrypted radio.
"Alpha One in position," I murmur. "Status on the breach teams."
"Breach teams are holding at the south and east access points," the tactical lead replies, his voice a low whisper of static. "Snipers have targets acquired. We are waiting on your mark, Vance."
I sweep the optics over the open doors of the hangar. The interior is brightly lit. I can see a stack of heavy aluminum transport cases sitting near the tail of the parked jet. The physical cash. Forty million dollars, boxed up and ready to disappear.
But I don't see Richard Evans.
I scan the interior again. There are more guards inside, standing in relaxed, defensive postures around the cases. There is no panicked accountant barking orders. There is no sense of urgency to load the plane.
The uneasy tension in my back tightens into a cold, absolute certainty.
Something is wrong.
If Evans was running for his life, he would be screaming at these men to load the cargo and get the plane in the air. He would not be sitting in a brightly lit hangar, waiting for the cartel to find him.
"Hold your positions," I order over the radio. "Do not initiate the breach."
"Dec, we have the perimeter locked," the tactical lead argues. "If we hit them now, we wipe the exterior guards before they can sound the alarm."
"I said hold."
I lower the rifle, my eyes narrowing as I study the layout of the hangar.
The aluminum cases are stacked in the direct center of the open floor. They are perfectly illuminated by the overhead halogen lights. They are the most obvious, exposed target in the entire facility.
It is a fatal funnel.
If my breach teams push through the doors to secure the cash, they will be stepping into a crossfire from the elevated catwalks running along the interior walls of the hangar.
"Leo," I say, switching the radio channel to the secure satellite relay. "I need a thermal scan of the interior catwalks inside the primary hangar."
Static hisses for three long seconds.
"Running the sweep now," Leo replies, his voice tight. "The corrugated steel roof is blocking a clean read, but... wait. Yeah. I'm getting faint heat signatures. They are lying prone on the metal grating. At least eight men, elevated, completely surrounding the cargo."
It isn't a transport operation.
It is an ambush.
Evans didn't panic when Maeve's script started draining the accounts. He used the missing funds to lure us out of hiding. He knew we would track the bulk transfer. He knew we would come for the physical cash.
"Pull the breach teams back," I order immediately, switching back to the tactical channel. "The objective is a trap. I repeat, the objective is a trap. Fall back to the secondary rally point."
"Copy that, Alpha One. We are pulling back."
I stay crouched in the snow, watching the hangar. The men in the white camouflage continue their patrols, completely unaware that the assault has been aborted.
I have to leave. The tactical advantage is gone. If I engage now, I am walking into a meat grinder, and I promised Maeve I would come back.
I begin to slowly back away from the tree line, keeping my profile low.
"Leo," I say, keeping the radio channel open. "Evans isn't here. He used the cash as bait. I need you to run a trace on his personal comms again. Find out where he actually is."
"I'm on it," Leo says. The sound of rapid typing echoes through the earpiece. "I'm pulling the GPS logs from the burner phone he used to initiate the transfer. Give me ten seconds."
I stand up, turning my back to the valley, and start the long hike back to the extraction zone. The snow is heavier now, falling in thick, wet flakes that stick to my balaclava.
"Okay, I have the ping," Leo announces. His voice sounds strange. Thinner. "Dec... the ping isn't in New York."
I stop walking. The wind howling through the pine trees suddenly sounds very far away.
"Where is it?" I ask, my voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal whisper.
"The phone is moving," Leo says, the panic finally bleeding into his tone. "It's on a boat. A fast-mover, currently navigating the reef system."
"Which reef system, Leo?"
"The Bahamas." Leo swallows audibly over the comms. "Dec, he's two miles off the coast of the island. He's heading for the private dock."
The world stops spinning.
The cold air in my lungs turns to ash.
Evans didn't just set a trap in New York to kill me. He set a trap to draw me away from the island. He knew I would leave her behind to protect her. He knew I would take the bait.
He didn't want the money. He wanted Maeve.
"Call the caretaker," I roar into the radio, my professional discipline completely shattering. I break into a dead sprint through the deep snow, ignoring the burning pain in my shoulder. "Tell him to lock down the compound! Tell him to put a gun in her hand and seal the blast doors!"
"I'm trying!" Leo shouts back. "The line is dead, Dec! They jammed the local frequency. I can't reach the compound!"
I hit the tree line near the extraction zone, my chest heaving. "Get the pilot on the line. Tell him to prep the plane for an immediate tactical extraction. If he isn't spinning the engines when I hit the tarmac, I will shoot him myself."
"Dec, it's a four-hour flight back to the island," Leo says, his voice breaking. "Even if you leave right now, they are going to make landfall in ten minutes."
I don't answer him. I tear the earpiece out of my ear and throw it into the snow.
I run.
I push my body past the point of physical exhaustion, my boots tearing through the snowdrifts. The only thing I can see is her face in the medical bay. The only thing I can hear is her voice telling me she would never forgive me if I didn't come back.
I left her.
I built a fortress to keep the world away from her, and then I handed the keys to the man who wants to destroy her.
If Richard Evans touches her, if he puts a single mark on her skin before I can cross the ocean to get to her, I am not just going to kill him.
I am going to burn the entire world to the ground.