He Caught His Mistress Stepping On His Pregnant Wife’s Belly—Then He Looked Up At The Blinking Red Light!

The adrenaline shot Marcus directly into consciousness with the violent shock of an electric chair.

*GAAASP!*

His back arched off the trauma bed, his eyes snapping wide open as the golden antidote flooded his bloodstream through the central IV line. The monitors in the mobile MedEvac chopper screamed as his heart rate slammed back down from the fatal zone into a stable, rhythmic sinus rhythm.

"Khloe!" Marcus roared, his hands tearing away the oxygen mask, his fingernails digging into the gurney as he sat bolt upright. He was sweating profusely, his chest heaving, but the purple discoloration on his lips was already receding.

"I'm here," I said softly from the jump seat across from him.

A military medic was rapidly wrapping a pressure bandage around my left shoulder, tying off the gunshot wound Isabella had given me on the pier. My face was pale, smeared with grease, soot, and blood, but my hand was firmly wrapped around the grip of an MP5 submachine gun resting across my knees.

Marcus looked at my bloody shoulder, then at the empty jump seat beside me.

"Where is she?" he whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "Where is our daughter?!"

"Julian took her," I replied, my voice steady, devoid of tears. "He was Isabella’s brother all along. They breached Teterboro ten minutes ago. They boarded a private Gulfstream G650 registered to a shell company in Panama. They’re cleared for departure to private airspace over the Caribbean."

Marcus ripped the IV needles out of his forearm, blood dripping onto the diamond-plated floor of the helicopter. He didn't care. The lethal boardroom shark, the billionaire heir, the master strategist—all of it had burned away, leaving only a father ready to massacre anything that stood between him and his child.

"Pilot!" Marcus shouted through the cockpit bulkhead. "Where is the interceptor?!"

"Touchdown at Teterboro Runway 6 in two minutes, Mr. Vance!" the pilot yelled back over the deafening whine of the rotors. "The tactical Gulfstream is spooled and ready for immediate scram! But the FAA has already issued an air-traffic hold due to the squall line!"

"Tell the FAA that Marcus Vance owns the airspace!" Marcus snarled. "If they try to ground us, I will buy their entire agency and fire every controller in the tower! We lift the second our wheels hit the tarmac!"

Ninety seconds later, our chopper touched down in a blinding swirl of snow and rain at the private terminal of Teterboro Airport.

Waiting for us on the auxiliary runway was a matte-black Gulfstream G550 Tactical Interceptor—a heavily modified corporate jet equipped with military-grade Rolls-Royce engines, mid-air radar jammers, and an pressurized rear airlock designed for maritime tactical drops.

As we sprinted across the freezing tarmac, Briggs met us at the boarding stairs, handing Marcus a heavy tactical vest and an assault rifle.

"Their G650 took off seven minutes ago, sir," Briggs reported, shouting over the roar of our jet engines. "They’re climbing through twenty-four thousand feet, heading southeast over the Atlantic to avoid domestic radar coverage. Because of the storm, civilian air traffic control has lost secondary transponder tracking. They think they’re invisible."

"They're not invisible to me," Marcus said, his eyes burning with lethal intent as we boarded the aircraft.

The heavy cabin door sealed shut with a pressurized hiss. The interceptor didn't wait for taxi clearance. The pilot slammed the throttles to maximum thrust, the twin turbines screaming as the G-force pinned us into the leather seats. The jet launched down the icy runway and ripped into the violent storm clouds, clawing its way up into the black sky like a guided missile.

Ten minutes later, the cabin pressure stabilized at thirty-five thousand feet.

Marcus unbuckled his harness, walking directly to the cockpit avionics station. The forward radar screen painted a bright green blip four miles ahead, cutting through the turbulence at Mach 0.88.

"We have them on infrared," the co-pilot stated. "We can force them down, sir. A few rounds through their starboard engine cowling and they’ll have to declare an emergency landing in Norfolk."

"No!" I shouted, stepping up beside Marcus. "Hope is on that plane! A cabin depressurization at this altitude will kill an infant in seconds!"

"Then we board," Marcus said simply.

The co-pilot turned around, his face pale. "Sir... boarding an aircraft in mid-flight at Mach 0.85 during a Class-4 Atlantic squall has a survival probability of less than three percent."