82. Chapter 82
Cate
Present
The road widened as we entered the airport industrial district.
Warehouses replaced office buildings. Security floodlights washed everything pale and cold. Long stretches of fencing ran parallel to the street.
Trevor didn’t slow.
“He’s approaching airport perimeter,” the officer reported. “Requesting units at south access.”
The radio crackled alive.
“Airport operations notified.”
“Locking main gate.”
“Hangar row confirms activity.”
My stomach dropped, he’d called ahead.
Of course he had.
Ahead, the glow intensified. Hangar doors stood open in the distance. And there, unmistakable, was the sleek silhouette of Trevor’s jet, cabin lights already on.
“He had this ready,” I whispered.
The cruiser gained ground.
Another unit swung in from a side street ahead, attempting to stagger the lane.
Trevor responded instantly.
Hard brake.
Hard cut.
The Audi skidded sideways across two lanes.
The patrol car behind us clipped another unit trying to reposition.
Metal screamed.
Glass shattered.
Controlled chaos.
Not random.
Calculated.
For one split second, Trevor’s car sat alone in the middle of the access road.
Engine running.
Then the driver side door opened.
“What is he doing?” the officer breathed.
Trevor stepped out, a gun in his hand.
Everything slowed.
“Stay down!” the officer barked at me.
Trevor didn’t aim at the police.
He walked straight toward my cruiser.
Calm.
Measured.
My blood turned to ice.
Marshal’s voice cut through the radio. “Units hold position. Do not engage unless fired upon.”
Trevor reached the rear passenger door.
The officer inside with me shouted commands.
“Drop it! Drop the weapon!”
Trevor ignored him.
He looked at me through the glass.
No panic.
No frenzy.
Only disappointment.
He raised the gun.
Not at the officer, at the window, and fired.
The glass exploded inward.
The sound ripped through my skull.
I screamed.
The officer flinched, just long enough.
Trevor yanked the door open and cold night air rushed in.
The barrel pressed to my head. “Out,” he said quietly.
Every unit froze.
Because he had positioned himself perfectly - between me and every clean shot.
“Drop it!” someone shouted.
Trevor didn’t look at them.
“Move,” he whispered against my ear.
My body obeyed.
He backed us away slowly, using me as a shield.
Marshal stepped forward cautiously.
“Trevor,” he called, steady. “You won’t make the runway.”
Trevor’s grip tightened in my hair.
“You’ve already made sure of that,” he replied evenly.
My heartbeat thundered.
He was breathing normally.
Like this was a boardroom negotiation.
He dragged me to his Audi.
Still running.
Still waiting.
He shoved me in, then slid in beside me in one fluid motion.
Gun now pressed to my ribs.
The car surged forward again.
Not toward the main gate, toward the south perimeter access road.
Toward the hangars.
Behind us, police lights multiplied.
Ahead, the jet engines began their low, rising spool.
And Trevor Reeder, the man who never lost control…
Had just escalated everything.