Chapter 8 - THE RECKONING AT THE HANGAR
The private airstrip in Westhampton was shrouded in a thick, creeping coastal fog that rolled in from the Atlantic.
My armored SUV tore through the security gates, the tires screeching against the asphalt as it skidded to a halt fifty yards away from a sleek Gulfstream private jet idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines screaming at high pitch.
Marcus’s tactical team had already disabled the jet’s boarding stairs with a well-placed round to the landing gear, trapping the aircraft on the ground.
I flung the SUV door open and stepped out into the biting wind, a suppressed pistol held loosely at my side.
The emergency door of the Gulfstream hissed open, and Julian Sterling stepped out onto the metal platform. He was wearing an expensive trench coat, his silver hair ruffled by the ocean gale. He clutched a leather briefcase stuffed with bearer bonds and passport files.
"Dominic!" Julian shouted over the roar of the engines, holding up a hand against the wind. "Don't be a fool! We're partners! If you take me down, half your legitimate shipping portfolio goes under with me!"
I walked slowly across the tarmac, the fog swirling around my boots like ghostly fingers. "You sold my wife, Julian."
"It was business!" Julian screamed, panic bleeding into his sophisticated tone. "Isabella was a liability! She wanted you to walk away from the syndicate, Dominic! If you had retired, the federal indictments would have swallowed us both whole! The Mendozas were just... instruments of necessary corporate restructuring!"
"Instruments," I repeated, my voice dead, flat, and absolute.
I raised the pistol.
"Think of your daughters!" Julian shrieked, backing toward the cabin door. "Who is going to raise them? That orphan girl? She hates you, Dominic! She’s Arthur Bennett's daughter! She stayed in your house to destroy you from the inside out!"
"I know," I said softly.
A single shot cracked through the fog.
Julian Sterling stumbled backward, dropping his briefcase as he collapsed onto the metal stairs, sliding down until he hit the wet asphalt of the tarmac. The wind howled through the jet turbines, drowning out the last ragged breath of a man who had measured human life in profit margins.
I lowered the gun. The smoke curled lazily from the barrel, dissolving into the gray mist.
May you like
Marcus stepped up beside me, holding out a clean handkerchief. "The federal marshals are five minutes out, boss. We’ve scrubbed the security feeds. It’s registered as an attempted cartel hit."
"Good," I murmured, turning back toward the SUV. "Let's go home."
