Chapter 5 - The Night Raid
The moon was completely obscured by heavy storm clouds as Jack’s Beaver roared down the unpaved strip of the municipal airstrip, lifting off into the dark, churning sky. I sat in the co-pilot seat, my hands resting lightly on the dual yoke, feeling the familiar, raw vibration of the radial engine thrumming through my bones. This wasn't a sleek corporate turboprop with digital avionics; this was pure, mechanical flying.
We flew low, hugging the jagged contours of the Black Ridge mountain range to avoid radar detection from the regional FAA tracking station.
“Approaching the old logging strip at sector four,” Jack shouted over the roar of the engine, squinting through the windscreen. “Cut your lights, Elena. We’re about to gatecrash a private party.”
Ahead, nestled in a deep valley between two pine-covered ridges, was an abandoned forestry airstrip. But it wasn't abandoned tonight. Floodlights glared across the tarmac, illuminating a Vale Air cargo transport parked right in the middle of the runway.
Beside it stood Owen, flanked by two of Sterling’s armed thugs, supervising the loading of heavy wooden crates from a flatbed truck into the belly of our plane.
“That’s our bird,” I murmured, my blood running cold.
Jack set the Beaver down smoothly on the rough dirt strip a hundred yards away, cutting the engine immediately. The sudden silence in the cabin was deafening, broken only by the whistling wind through the pines.
We slipped out into the freezing night air, moving silently through the shadows of the tree line until we reached the perimeter fence of the airstrip.
Through the chain-link fence, I could hear Owen’s voice carrying clearly across the tarmac.
“Make sure these crates are secured in the forward hold,” Owen barked at the loaders. “Sterling’s buyer in Vancouver is expecting delivery by dawn. Once this shipment clears customs, our offshore accounts will be untouchable.”
So that was it. Owen wasn't just stealing money; he was running contraband using Vale Air’s fleet as an invisible mule, exploiting my reputation for safety and reliability to bypass customs inspection.
I pulled out my encrypted tactical camera with a high-zoom telephoto lens. I framed the shot perfectly—Owen standing beside the open cargo hatch, the stamped crates bearing Sterling’s insignia, and the tail number of the Vale Air transport clearly visible under the glaring floodlights. Flash after flash, I captured every damning piece of evidence.
“Got it,” I whispered to Jack.
Suddenly, a heavy hand slammed down on my shoulder.
I spun around, throwing a sharp elbow, but a burly arm caught my wrist, twisting it behind my back. It was one of the local guards patrolling the perimeter.
“Well, well, well,” a smooth, cold voice echoed from the darkness.
May you like
Owen stepped out from behind a stack of fuel drums, a smug, vicious grin spread across his face. He walked over, grabbing the camera right out of my hand with a sharp yank.
“Elena, Elena, Elena,” Owen clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “You really don't know when to quit, do you?”
