Chapter 7 - The Final Flight
Julian was out of options, out of money, and out of allies.
He had abandoned Beatrice at the motel the moment the sirens got close, slipping out the bathroom window and stealing a beat-up Honda Civic from the parking lot.
It was 2:00 AM, and rain was lashing against the windshield as Julian sped toward a small, unregulated airstrip in New Jersey. He had pawned his diamond cufflinks and his Patek watch to a shady broker for fifty thousand dollars in cash—just enough to bribe a desperate cargo pilot to fly him across the border to Mexico, where he could disappear into South America.
His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was drenched in sweat, checking his rearview mirror every five seconds.
He pulled up to the chain-link fence of the airstrip. Through the driving rain, he saw the twin-engine Cessna idling on the dark tarmac. The pilot was waiting.
Julian grabbed his duffel bag of cash and ran.
He slipped on the wet asphalt, tearing the knee of his trousers, but scrambled up like a feral animal. He reached the stairs of the plane.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Julian screamed over the roar of the engines, throwing his bag inside.
The pilot didn’t move. He sat perfectly still in the cockpit.
“Are you deaf?! Take off!” Julian roared, climbing into the cabin.
Suddenly, the blinding glare of a dozen high-intensity halogen spotlights snapped on, illuminating the tarmac with the intensity of the midday sun.
Julian threw his arms up to shield his eyes.
Over a megaphone, a voice boomed, “JULIAN VANCE. THIS IS THE FBI. KILL THE ENGINES AND STEP OUT OF THE AIRCRAFT WITH YOUR HANDS RAISED.”
From the shadows, five black armored vehicles swarmed the plane, cutting off any possibility of a runway taxi. Dozens of heavily armed tactical agents surrounded the Cessna, their laser sights cutting through the rain and painting red dots across Julian’s chest.
Julian fell to his knees in the doorway of the plane. The duffel bag spilled open, cheap hundred-dollar bills blowing out into the puddles on the tarmac.
He raised his shaking hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
He was pulled roughly from the plane, slammed facedown into the wet asphalt, and handcuffed. As they hauled him to his feet and dragged him toward the transport van, Julian looked back at the lights.
May you like
He finally realized what I had known all along.
He was nothing.
