CHAPTER 27
Gemma
The interior of Arthur Vance’s private jet is a masterclass in psychological intimidation.
It isn't designed for comfort. It is designed to remind anyone sitting inside it exactly how much money and power the owner possesses.
The seats are black leather, the wood paneling is dark mahogany, and the lighting is kept low, creating an atmosphere that feels less like an aircraft cabin and more like an expensive interrogation room.
I am sitting in one of the wide club seats near the rear of the cabin.
My hands are resting flat on my thighs. My clothes are completely soaked from the London rain, the heavy winter coat clinging uncomfortably to my shoulders.
The air conditioning in the jet is running high, sending violent shivers down my spine, but I refuse to cross my arms. I refuse to give Arthur Vance the satisfaction of seeing me try to comfort myself.
Arthur is sitting directly across the aisle from me.
He has taken off his trench coat, revealing a tailored, dark navy suit. He is drinking a glass of scotch, entirely unbothered by the fact that it is barely dawn. He hasn't spoken to me since his men shoved me up the stairs of the jet twenty minutes ago.
He is waiting for the plane to be cleared for takeoff.
I stare at the small, oval window next to my seat. The tarmac is slick with rain, reflecting the harsh halogen floodlights of the airfield.
"Where is she?" I ask, my voice breaking the silence.
Arthur takes a slow sip of his scotch, letting the liquid linger on his tongue before swallowing. He sets the crystal glass down on the polished wood table between us.
"I assume you are referring to your broker," Arthur says smoothly. "Pippa, was it?"
"You know exactly who I am referring to." I force my hands to stay flat on my legs, hiding the tremor in my fingers. "You sent the message. You said she was in a shipping container."
"She is." Arthur leans back in his seat, crossing his legs. "Though, to be perfectly accurate, she is currently in a shipping container on a cargo vessel already moving into the North Sea. She is quite safe, Miss Hayes. Assuming, of course, that you are cooperative when we reach our destination."
My stomach drops.
They didn't keep her in London. The container at the Isle of Dogs really was just a trap for Callum. They moved Pippa before we even landed in the UK.
"Where are we going?" I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
"Zurich," Arthur replies easily. "I have a secure facility there. You will sit at a terminal, you will input your half of the decryption key, and we will wait for Mr. Reed to realize that his only option for survival is to provide the other half."
"He won't negotiate with you."
"Everyone negotiates when the alternative is burning alive," Arthur says, a cold, genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"Though, given the fact that my men at the shipping yard have stopped responding to radio checks, I suspect Mr. Reed has already managed to free himself from the container. He is remarkably persistent."
I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting a faint hint of copper.
He knows Callum is out. He knows Callum is coming. And he doesn't care. He is sitting in a jet, waiting to fly away with his leverage.
"You underestimated him," I say quietly.
"I underestimated the structural integrity of the container doors against high explosives," Arthur corrects. "A minor logistical error. It will not happen again."
He picks up his glass of scotch.
Before the rim can touch his lips, a massive, concussive CRASH echoes across the tarmac outside the jet.
The sound is so loud it vibrates through the thick fuselage of the aircraft.
Arthur freezes, the glass hovering inches from his mouth. The two heavily armed mercenaries standing guard near the cockpit door instantly raise their rifles, turning toward the windows.
I press my face against the cold glass of the oval window, peering out into the rain.
At the far end of the airfield, the heavy steel security gates are completely gone. A massive, black Range Rover has plowed directly through them, tearing the metal off its hinges. The SUV doesn't stop at the guardhouse. It doesn't slow down.
It is tearing across the open tarmac, heading straight for the jet.
"Start the engines!" Arthur barks, slamming his glass down on the table. The scotch spills over the rim, staining the polished wood. He stands up, pointing at the mercenaries. "Secure the cabin door. Do not let him board this aircraft."
The whine of the jet turbines begins to pitch up, a high, deafening scream as the pilots initiate an emergency spool-up.
I watch the Range Rover through the window.
It is moving at a terrifying speed, the heavy tires throwing up massive sheets of water from the flooded tarmac. Two airport security vehicles with flashing blue lights pull out from a side access road, attempting to intercept the SUV.
The Range Rover doesn't swerve. It slams directly into the side of the first security car, spinning it violently out of the way, and keeps coming.
"He’s going to ram the plane," I whisper, my breath fogging the cold glass.
"He wouldn't dare," Arthur says, though his voice has lost its smooth, cultured edge. He grabs the back of my seat, bracing himself. "If he hits the landing gear, he breaches the fuel tanks. He’ll kill us all."
I look at Arthur.
"You really don't know him at all," I say.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, drop to the floor of the cabin, and wedge myself tightly between the base of the leather club seat and the mahogany bulkhead. I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms over my head.
Five seconds later, the world ends.
The impact is catastrophic.
The Range Rover doesn't hit the landing gear. It slams directly into the mobile boarding stairs still attached to the side of the jet. The three-ton SUV obliterates the aluminum stairs, driving the wreckage straight into the open cabin door.
The entire jet lurches violently to the right. The screech of tearing metal is deafening, completely drowning out the sound of the turbines.
I am thrown hard against the base of the seat, my injured ribs screaming in protest as the fuselage shudders. The lights in the cabin flicker and die, plunging the interior into emergency red lighting.
"Shoot him!" Arthur screams from somewhere above me.
The two mercenaries near the front of the cabin open fire. The deafening roar of automatic rifles fills the confined space, the muzzle flashes strobing wildly in the red light. They are firing blindly out the ruined doorway, pouring lead into the rain.
I stay curled on the floor, my hands pressed tightly over my ears.
The firing stops abruptly.
I hear the heavy, distinct thud of a body hitting the carpeted floor of the aisle. Then a second thud.
Silence falls over the cabin, broken only by the sound of the rain pouring in through the torn fuselage and the high-pitched whine of the failing engines.
"Arthur," a voice says.
The voice is low, rough, and completely devoid of humanity. It doesn't sound like a man. It sounds like a natural disaster.
I slowly lower my hands from my ears, peering out from beneath the leather seat.
Callum is standing in the ruined doorway of the jet.
The wind is whipping his dark hair across his forehead.
His face is pale, smeared with dirt and dried blood from his nose.
His heavy winter coat is torn at the shoulder, exposing the black tactical vest underneath.
He is holding the MP5 submachine gun in his right hand, the barrel pointed slightly downward.
He steps into the cabin.
The two mercenaries are lying dead in the aisle. Callum doesn't even look at them. His dark, lethal eyes are locked entirely on Arthur Vance.
Arthur has backed away toward the rear bulkhead. He has pulled a small, silver handgun from his suit jacket, but his hands are shaking so badly he can barely keep the barrel level.
"Stay back," Arthur orders, his voice cracking. "If you kill me, the syndicate will—"
"The syndicate is bankrupt," Callum interrupts, his voice a cold, flat rasp. He takes a slow, deliberate step down the aisle. "Your father is dead. Your men are dead. You have absolutely no leverage left."
"I have the girl," Arthur says desperately. He glances down, spotting me huddled on the floor between the seats. He points the silver handgun at my head. "Drop the weapon, Reed. Drop it, or I put a bullet in her."
Callum stops walking.
He is ten feet away from Arthur. He looks at me, his eyes dropping to the gun pointed at my face, and then back to Arthur.
"You need her alive to decrypt the ledger," Callum says smoothly.
"I only need her fingers," Arthur snarls. "I can take them off her corpse."
"You don't have the ledger," I say, my voice surprisingly steady.
Arthur’s eyes snap down to me. "What?"
I reach into the deep inside pocket of my wet winter coat. I don't pull out the encrypted drive.
I pull out the Glock 19.
Arthur’s eyes widen in shock. He didn't search me. He assumed his men in the alley had already stripped me of any weapons.
I don't hesitate. I don't calculate the math. I don't think about the recoil or the noise.
I point the gun directly at Arthur Vance’s chest and pull the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening in the small cabin.
Arthur stumbles backward, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. His silver handgun discharges wildly, the bullet shattering the wood paneling above my head. He drops the gun, clutching his chest, his pristine navy suit rapidly turning black with blood.
He hits the rear bulkhead and slowly slides down the wall, collapsing onto the carpet.
I lower the Glock. My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hold the weapon. The smell of gunpowder is thick and suffocating in the air.
I stare at Arthur’s body. He isn't moving.
I did it. I actually shot him.
Heavy boots step into my line of sight.
Callum crouches down in front of me. He doesn't look at Arthur. He doesn't check the body. He reaches out, his large hands wrapping gently around my trembling wrists. He carefully takes the Glock from my grip, setting it on the floor out of the way.
"Are you hit?" he asks, his voice a harsh, frantic whisper. His hands move rapidly over my coat, checking my arms, my shoulders, my chest for blood.
"No," I gasp, my chest heaving. "No, I’m okay. I’m okay."
He doesn't stop checking until he is absolutely certain I am uninjured. Then, he slides his hands to the sides of my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. His skin is freezing cold from the rain, but his touch is incredibly gentle.
"You told me to stay in the car," I whisper, looking up into his dark eyes.
"You never listen to me," he replies, a faint, exhausted smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"He said Pippa is on a cargo ship," I tell him, the reality of the situation rushing back in. "He said she’s already moving into the North Sea. Callum, we have to find her."
The smile vanishes from his face. The tactical professional returns, but the coldness is gone. He is completely present.
"We will," he promises, standing up and pulling me to my feet.
My ribs protest the sudden movement, a sharp ache radiating up my side, but I ignore it. I lean heavily against his side, his arm wrapping securely around my waist.
"We need to move," Callum says, guiding me down the aisle, stepping over the dead mercenaries. "The airport security will be here in less than two minutes, and the local police are already en route."
We reach the ruined doorway of the jet.
The mobile boarding stairs are completely destroyed, crushed beneath the front bumper of the Range Rover. The drop to the tarmac is roughly eight feet.
Callum looks at the drop, then looks at me.
"I can't jump that," I say, shaking my head. "My stitches will tear again."
"You aren't going to jump."
He holsters his weapon. He steps to the edge of the doorway, turns his back to the drop, and grabs the edge of the torn aluminum frame. He lowers himself down, hanging by his hands for a second before dropping lightly onto the wet tarmac below.
He looks up at me, holding his arms out.
"Come here," he says.
I sit on the edge of the doorway, my legs dangling over the drop. The rain is coming down in sheets, soaking my hair instantly. I look down at him. He is standing in the wreckage, surrounded by flashing blue lights in the distance, waiting to catch me.
I slide off the edge.
I don't fall far. Callum catches me effortlessly, his arms wrapping around my waist, absorbing the impact completely so my ribs don't take the shock. He lets me slide down until my boots touch the wet asphalt, but he doesn't let me go.
"I have you," he murmurs against my wet hair.
"I know," I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.
The sound of approaching sirens cuts through the rain, growing louder by the second.
Callum pulls back, grabbing my hand.
"Ben has a secondary extraction point set up outside the perimeter fence," Callum says, pulling me toward the shadows of the hangars, away from the flashing lights. "We need to disappear."
We run into the dark.
The syndicate is dead. The money is ours.
Now, we just have to find a cargo ship in the middle of the ocean before the clock runs out.