The Escape Attempt

The road to the airfield was a narrow ribbon of asphalt cutting through the black pine forest. Marcus drove with grim determination, his knuckles white on the wheel. In the passenger seat, Sabrina was a statue, staring unblinkingly at the dashboard.

"He transferred the debt?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "To me?"

"He transferred the liability," Iris said from the back seat, still scrolling through the files. "The loans. The mortgages on properties that don't exist. It's all in your name now. If the feds investigate, it looks like you were the one laundering the money."

Sabrina let out a short, hysterical laugh. "He gave me a gallery. He gave me a car. And all along, he was just fattening the pig for slaughter."

She looked back at Elias. He was huddled in the corner, clutching the tire iron like a talisman. He met her gaze, and she flinched.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I didn't know."

"You knew enough," Elias said. His voice was flat, devoid of anger or forgiveness. Just a statement of fact.

Sabrina turned away, pressing her forehead against the cool glass.

"There," Marcus said, pointing ahead.

The airfield gates were closed, a chain-link barrier topped with razor wire. Beyond it, the runway lights were a string of blue pearls in the darkness.

And at the far end of the tarmac, the jet sat waiting. Its engines were winding down, the whine dropping in pitch.

"The fuel truck isn't here," Iris said. "He's stranded."

"Or he's already refueled," Marcus said.

He killed the headlights and coasted toward the service entrance. "We can't drive in. The guards will see us."

"We walk," Iris said.

"Iris, your ankle," Marcus protested.

"I can walk," she said, opening the door. "I've walked this far."

They slipped through a gap in the fence where the chain-link had rusted away—a shortcut Marcus knew from his teenage years. The grass was tall and wet, soaking their pants to the knees.

They crept toward the hangar, using the shadows as cover. The jet was parked near the main terminal building, a sleek white dart against the night sky.

The black SUV was parked next to it. Julian was standing by the open door, arguing with a man in a jumpsuit. The pilot.

"I don't care about the regulations!" Julian shouted, his voice carrying across the tarmac. "I pay you to fly, not to quote the FAA manual!"

"Mr. Vance, we don't have the range," the pilot said, gesturing to the wing. "We'll be ditching in the Atlantic."

"Then get the fuel truck!"

"It's on its way, sir. But the driver... he said there was a delay."

Iris looked at Marcus. "The delay at the nursing home."

Julian paced, agitated. He looked toward the gate, then back at the plane. He was trapped. A prisoner of his own logistics.

"We need to get closer," Iris whispered. "We need to hear what he's planning."

They moved along the side of the hangar. But as they rounded the corner, a floodlight snapped on, blinding them.

"Hold it right there!"

A guard stepped out from the shadows, a shotgun in his hands. Not the man with the trident tattoo. Someone new. Someone bigger.

"Don't move," he barked.

Iris froze. Marcus put his hands up. Sabrina gasped.

The guard keyed his radio. "Mr. Vance? We have visitors."

Julian looked over. He saw them standing in the harsh white light.

A slow smile spread across his face.

"Bring them here," he said.

The guard marched them onto the tarmac. Julian waited by the SUV, his broken wrist cradled against his chest.

"I knew you'd come," he said to Iris. "You're too stubborn for your own good. And you," he looked at Sabrina. "My disappointment."

"I'm not your daughter," Sabrina spat. "I'm Sarah Miller's sister."

Julian’s smile faltered, just for a second. "Details. I raised you. I fed you. I made you."

He looked at Elias.

"And you," he said softly. "The prodigal son."

He pulled a fresh gun from the SUV's glove box. A revolver this time.

"Get in the van," he said, gesturing to a white transport van parked behind the SUV. "The doctor is waiting."

"What doctor?" Iris asked.

"Dr. Aris is dead, Iris," Julian said. "But his son... he took over the practice. And the payroll."

He pointed the gun at Elias.

"It's time to go, Elias. The doctor is waiting."