Chapter 3: The Tarmac Chase
Chapter 3: The Tarmac Chase
The rain had begun to fall over New Jersey, turning the tarmac at Teterboro Airport into a dark, shimmering mirror that reflected the harsh yellow floodlights of the private hangars. Marcus drove the black suburban through the rear security gate, using the high-level clearance pass that Sterling Holdings maintained for its executive transport.
In the backseat, I sat with a black leather jacket pulled tight over a simple grey sweatshirt, a thick elastic bandage wrapped firmly around my torso to keep the stitches from tearing. Every bump in the road sent a sharp, hot needle of pain through my side, but I kept my eyes fixed on Hangar 7—the facility registered to Ward-Whitman Development.
“We have two minutes before their flight window opens,” Detective Reed said from the passenger seat, her laptop open on her knees as she communicated with the airport’s control tower. “The pilot has already started the engines on the Gulfstream. If they taxi onto the main runway, we can't stop them without a federal interdiction order, which is still stuck in the bureaucracy.”
“They won't reach the runway,” Marcus said, his jaw set as he shifted the heavy vehicle into four-wheel drive.
As we rounded the edge of the hangar, the sleek, white form of the private jet came into view. Its twin engines were whining, a low, powerful drone that vibrated through the frame of our SUV. A black luxury sedan was parked near the mobile boarding stairs, its doors wide open.
Ethan was there. He was no longer the immaculate, poised CEO who spent his mornings reviewing market reports. His hair was disheveled, his expensive tuxedo shirt wrinkled and stained with grey dust from his brief stay in the holding cell. He was frantically hauling two heavy, metal-reinforced briefcases up the stairs.
Vanessa stood at the top of the boarding stairs, her red silk dress covered by a long black trench coat, her diamonds glittering against the dark night. She was shouting at the pilot, her face twisted in an expression of pure, ugly desperation.
“Block them!” I shouted to Marcus.
Marcus didn't slow down. He slammed the brakes, pivoting the heavy Suburban across the tarmac, the tires screeching as the vehicle came to a halt precisely three inches from the front bumper of the idling jet’s nose gear. The pilot, seeing the massive black obstacle, immediately cut the throttle, the engines whining down into a low hiss.
Ethan spun around on the stairs, nearly dropping one of the metal briefcases. His eyes widened in absolute horror as the doors of our vehicle flew open.
Detective Reed was the first out, her service weapon drawn and held steady in both hands. “Federal Agent! Step away from the aircraft! Put the cases down immediately!”
I stepped out behind her, leaning heavily against the door frame for support as a wave of dizziness washed over me. The wind caught my hair, whipping it across my face, but I kept my gaze locked onto my husband.
“Clara!” Ethan screamed over the dying roar of the jet engines. “What are you doing? You’re ruining everything! We could have settled this! I can give you half! We can split the offshore accounts—thirty million dollars, Clara! You’ll never have to work again!”
“I don't want your money, Ethan,” I called back, my voice carrying clearly through the damp night air. “And it isn't your money to give. It belongs to the people you spent the last three years robbing.”
Vanessa stepped down the stairs, her heels slipping slightly on the wet metal rungs. “You have nothing on us, Clara! The corporate board authorized the transfer of these assets this afternoon! It’s on the record!”
“The board that you packed with your own shell company representatives?” Lawrence Vance stepped out of the Suburban, holding a wireless tablet. “As of ten minutes ago, the New York State Attorney General has issued an emergency injunction freezing the voting rights of every board member associated with Ward-Whitman Development due to active criminal fraud investigations. The board meeting this afternoon has been declared legally null and void.”
Lawrence looked up at Vanessa, his silver hair glittering with droplets of rain. “Which means those cases in Ethan’s hands are currently filled with stolen property. Grand larceny, interstate transportation of stolen securities, and corporate embezzlement. That’s twenty-five years minimum, Miss Ward. In a federal facility where they don't serve champagne.”
Ethan looked at the briefcases in his hands, then at Vanessa, and finally at me. The realization of his complete and utter ruin seemed to age him ten years in a matter of seconds. His knees buckled, and he sank down onto the wet metal steps of the boarding ladder—the exact same posture he had taken at my feet in the penthouse only hours earlier.
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“Clara...” he whispered, his voice cracking as the tears began to mingle with the rain on his face. “Please. I loved you. In the beginning, I really loved you.”
“In the beginning, Ethan, you didn't have anything to steal,” I said, turning my back on him as Detective Reed and Marcus moved forward with the handcuffs. “Take them away.”
