Chapter 42 - Boarding the Red-Eye to Zurich
The private terminal was whisper-quiet, smelling of polished mahogany, expensive espresso, and fresh lilies. Two private security guards in charcoal suits stood near the metal detector, but the moment Isabella flashed the black diplomatic folders with the Maltese crest, they stepped back and bowed their heads.
"Good morning, Ms. Vance," the terminal concierge said softly, checking the tail number on his tablet. "Captain Becker has completed his pre-flight checks. Flight VNC-902 is cleared direct to Zurich-Kloten. Flight time is seven hours and twelve minutes. We have a medical transport crib prepared in the forward cabin as requested."
Khloe’s breath hitched at the words *medical transport crib*, but she masked it instantly with a cool, aristocratic nod she had perfected over years of high-society charity galas in Boston.
"Thank you," Khloe said, her voice smooth, unaffected, carrying the precise, arrogant cadence of the Vance family. "Ensure our luggage is not disturbed. We are on an urgent family schedule."
"Understood, ma'am. Safe travels."
We walked down the rain-slicked boarding stairs and climbed into the cabin of the Gulfstream.
The interior was pure, unadulterated luxury: cream leather swivel seats, dark walnut bulkheads, and gold-plated fixtures. But in the forward section, bolted directly into the deck tracks where a luxury sofa should have been, sat a specialized, medical-grade transport incubator with oxygen lines, digital telemetry screens, and an IV infusion rack.
The crib was empty.
Khloe walked over to it, her hand trembling as she touched the cold, clear acrylic dome.
This was where they had planned to put Nathan. They had designed this aircraft to carry both stolen infants across the Atlantic like high-value biological cargo.
"Marcus," Khloe whispered, looking back at me as the heavy cabin door sealed shut with a hydraulic hiss. "Look at the telemetry logs on the monitor."
I walked over to the incubator.
The system memory was still active from its previous connection. The screen displayed a live cellular synchronization feed connected via satellite to an IP address registered in Zurich:
*DONOR B: FEMALE (INFANT).*
*WEIGHT: 2.45 KG.*
*STATUS: PRE-EXTRACTION SEDATION / CRITICAL MONITORING.*
*LOCATION: CLINIC ALPENROSE, WING C, SUB-LEVEL 2.*
*PROCEDURE SCHEDULED: 14:00 CET (CENTRAL EUROPEAN TIME).*
I checked my watch.
It was 8:45 AM in New York.
That meant it was already 1:45 PM in Zurich.
"They're starting the procedure in fifteen minutes," I choked out, a cold wave of horror crashing over me. "The flight is seven hours! Marcus, she's going to die before we even cross the ocean!"
"No," Isabella shouted from the galley, her face pale as she stared at the private avionics display. "No, look at the time zone! The clinic schedule is set to Zurich local time, but the pre-extraction preparation protocol takes twenty-four hours! Look at the date!"
I looked closer at the digital calendar below the countdown:
*PROCEDURE DATE: TOMORROW, 14:00 CET.*
We had twenty-four hours.
The jet’s engines roared to life, a high-pitched scream that vibrated through the floorboards. The aircraft lurched forward, taxiing toward the runway through the blinding rain.
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Khloe sank into one of the leather seats, pulling Nathan tight against her chest, her tears falling freely onto the infant's soft brown hair.
"Twenty-four hours," Khloe whispered, closing her eyes as the jet accelerated down the tarmac, lifting into the gray clouds above New York. "Hold on, my little girl. Mommy is coming."
