Chapter 3 - Grounded in Aspen
The Global 7500 carved through the gray mountain clouds, banking sharply against the jagged silhouettes of the Sawatch Range before lining up with Runway 25 at Eagle County Regional Airport. The landing gear dropped with a dull mechanical clunk that reverberated through the pressurized floorboards.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Sienna was weeping now—no longer the sharp, venomous mistress of forty thousand feet, but a sniffling, ruined creature whose expensive foundation was streaked with black mascara. She kept trying to adjust her hair, hissing at Grant in urgent, desperate whispers.
"Fix this, Grant! Call your father’s lawyers! Call Arthur Sterling! You said your brother was just a glorified defense contractor! You said you had equal voting shares in the family trust!"
"Shut up, Sienna," Grant hissed back through cracked lips, his hands visibly shaking as he tried to re-tie his silk necktie with trembling fingers. His eyes darted toward Callum, who stood immovable in the forward aisle, his hand resting lightly on the back of Lena’s seat. "Just shut the fuck up. You don't understand who Callum is. Nobody says no to Callum."
"I am an influencer with four million followers!" Sienna choked out, her narcissism fighting for its life against impending doom. "I will go live on Instagram the second my phone gets signal! I'll tell them I was assaulted by an unhinged billionaire! I'll say his crazy pregnant wife attacked me first!"
Lena didn’t even turn her head. She kept her eyes forward, focusing on taking deep, rhythmic breaths to stave off the sharp, braxton-hicks contractions tightening her abdomen. Callum’s large, warm hand rested gently on her shoulder—a silent, immovable bulwark between her and the venom behind them.
"Let her post," Callum murmured down to Lena, his voice cool and utterly unbothered. "Defamation against Prescott Aerospace carries a mandatory liquidated damages clause of fifty million dollars. I’ll own her company, her apartment, and the clothes on her back before the morning news cycle ends."
*THUD-THUD.*
The heavy landing gear touched down on the tarmac with a squeal of vulcanized rubber. Captain Miller immediately engaged the thrust reversers; the deafening roar of the jet engines rattled the cabin windows as the aircraft rapidly decelerated along the runway, veering sharply off the commercial taxiway and heading toward the isolated, high-security Atlantic Aviation private terminal.
Outside the portholes, the scene was terrifyingly orchestrated.
There were no luxury limousines waiting to whisk them away to a ski chalet.
Instead, a semi-circle of vehicles blocked the private hangar apron. Two high-clearance critical care ambulances from Vail Health had their rear doors wide open, red and blue LED light bars painting the white snow banks in flashing hues of emergency. Flanking them were four black Ford Expeditions bearing the gold seals of the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department, alongside two unmarked black Suburbans with federal government plates.
Armed tactical officers in heavy winter parkas stood at parade rest, their eyes locked on the decelerating jet.
Grant peered out the window and let out a strangled, pathetic whimper. "Callum... please. Look out there. The media will pick this up on flight radar. My career... my political campaign for the state senate seat next year... it’ll be incinerated."
"Your career died the moment you touched this plane's manifest, Grant," Callum said without looking at him.
The jet came to a smooth halt. The engines whined down into silence.
The pneumatic seal hissed, and the forward cabin door swung open, letting in a blast of sub-zero Rocky Mountain air that smelled of pine, jet fuel, and brutal consequence.
A team of four flight paramedics, clad in high-visibility red parkas and carrying trauma bags and a portable fetal Doppler monitor, bounded up the stairs before the airstairs had even finished settling.
"Mr. Prescott?" the lead paramedic, a sharp-eyed woman with a stethoscope around her neck, called out.
"In here," Callum called back, stepping aside. "Patient is thirty-four weeks gestation. Blunt force trauma to the scalp and cervical spine. Experiencing elevated heart rate and preterm uterine contractions following a physical assault."
"We’ve got her," the paramedic said, immediately kneeling by Lena’s side.
Within seconds, gentle, professional hands were wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Lena’s arm, placing a pulse oximeter on her finger, and sliding the cold Doppler wand over the lower curve of her belly.
For three agonizing seconds, the cabin was dead silent.
Then, loud, rapid, and unmistakable, the galloping sound of a healthy fetal heartbeat echoed through the monitor speaker.
*Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.*
Lena let out a ragged sob, burying her face in her hands. The tears she had held back through the entire ordeal finally spilled over her knuckles. Her baby boy was alive. His heart was strong.
"Fetal heart rate is one-forty-eight, strong and regular," the paramedic announced with a reassuring smile, squeezing Lena’s knee. "Mom’s BP is elevated at one-forty over ninety-five, but we’re going to get you straight into the ambulance, Mrs. Prescott. Dr. Bradley is waiting at the surgical center in Edwards to do a full ultrasound."
"Thank you," Lena whispered, her voice cracking. "Thank you."
Two paramedics carefully helped Lena out of the seat, wrapping her in an insulated thermal blanket and easing her onto a lightweight transit gurney.
As they wheeled her down the aisle, Sienna tried to stand up, smoothing her mohair sweater. "Finally. Get these paramedics out of the way. Grant, grab my Louis Vuitton duffel, we need to find our driver—"
"Step back, ma'am."
A mountain of a man in an Eagle County Sheriff’s tactical vest stepped through the door, his hand resting authoritatively on his sidearm. Behind him came two federal agents in dark suits, their gold badges gleaming against their lapels.
"Grant Prescott?" the lead FBI agent asked, holding up a laminated credential. "Special Agent Davies, Aviation Security Division. And you must be Sienna Vale."
"Listen to me, Agent," Grant said, puffing out his chest in a desperate, last-gasp display of high-society bravado. "I am the son of Robert Prescott. There has been a ridiculous misunderstanding aboard this private aircraft. My brother has suffered some kind of executive burnout and is using his authority to harass us. I demand to speak to the United States Attorney for the District of Colorado immediately."
Special Agent Davies didn't blink. He pulled a pair of high-tensile steel handcuffs from his belt.
"Grant Prescott, you are under arrest for accessory to assault aboard an aircraft in flight, obstruction of justice, and violation of federal aviation security protocols. Turn around and place your hands behind your back."
"What?!" Sienna shrieked, backing away toward the galley. "No! I didn't do anything! That crazy pregnant woman lunged at me! She attacked my face! Grant, tell them!"
"Miss Vale," the second agent said, stepping past Grant and cornering her in the narrow galley corridor. "We have already reviewed the direct satellite feed transmitted from Jet Tail N77-PX to the Prescott Aerospace operations center in Reston, Virginia. The high-definition multi-angle security footage clearly depicts you wrapping your hand in the victim’s hair, dragging her violently backward, and issuing verbal threats of bodily harm while the co-defendant refused to intervene."
The agent grabbed Sienna’s manicured wrist, pulling it behind her back.
*Click-clack.*
The cold steel clamped around her skin.
"Get your filthy hands off me!" Sienna screamed, thrashing wildly, her designer boots skidding on the spilled scotch. "Grant! Do something! You promised me I would be safe! You said she had no power!"
"Shut up! Shut up, Sienna!" Grant yelled back, his face crimson with humiliation as the sheriff shoved him against the bulkhead, ratcheting handcuffs tightly around his own wrists. "Callum, call them off! We're brothers! Blood doesn't do this to blood!"
Callum stood at the head of the airstairs, silhouetted against the blinding white snow of the Rocky Mountains, his overcoat snapping in the sub-zero wind.
He looked back into the cabin, his eyes colder than the Colorado winter.
"Blood protects its own, Grant," Callum said softly. "You stopped being my brother the second you broke that vow."
May you like
Callum turned on his heel and walked down the metal stairs, following Lena’s gurney into the waiting ambulance, leaving the screams of his brother and his mistress to echo uselessly inside the aluminum cage of the grounded jet.
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