Chapter 24 - The Ghost Flight to Zurich
There was no time to think, only to run.
Marcus dragged Charles to his feet by the zip-ties. They slipped out the rear hatch of the bunker, cutting through the dense coastal marsh just as two unmarked black MH-60 Jayhawk helicopters descended over the beach, kicking up plumes of blinding sand and deploying heavily armed tactical teams in tactical gear.
"They're not FBI," Marcus whispered, crouching low behind a ridge of sea grass as the sisters dropped beside him. "Look at the uniforms. No insignias. Black plate carriers, suppressed Sig Sauer carbines. That’s a private security team contracted through Aegis Apex—Evelyn’s personal cleanup contractors. If they find us, there won't be an arrest. There will be four execution-style headshots labeled as storm casualties."
"How do we get off this continent?" Vanessa hissed, ducking as a spotlight swept the reeds fifty yards away. "Commercial flights are out. Our faces are on every television screen from New York to Tokyo!"
"We don't fly commercial," Charles muttered, spitting blood into the mud. "In Teterboro... Hangar 4. I have an unregistered Gulfstream G650 registered under a defunct Panamanian freight company. It carries auxiliary fuel tanks for non-stop transatlantic crossing. The pilot is an ex-Spetsnaz mercenary on a hundred-thousand-dollar monthly retainer. He doesn't ask for flight manifests. He only asks for gold."
Claire looked at Marcus. "Can you get us to New Jersey without hitting highway checkpoints?"
Marcus pulled a set of keys from his pocket—retrieved from a municipal service truck parked behind the state park maintenance shed. "Get in. Keep your heads below the windows."
Three hours later, the rusted municipal truck breached the perimeter gate of Teterboro Airport in northern New Jersey. The airfield was shrouded in dense morning fog.
Inside Hangar 4, the sleek, matte-black Gulfstream sat with its engines already whining in low-idle, its twin Rolls-Royce turbofans cutting through the mist.
As they dragged Charles up the boarding stairs, Vanessa stopped at the cabin door. She looked down at Claire. Claire was wearing an oversized mechanic’s jumpsuit Marcus had stolen from a gas station, her hands calloused, her face streaked with dirt and ocean salt—the undeniable look of a girl who had worked for every breath she ever drew. Vanessa, by contrast, was stripped of all her high-society armor, her designer silk reduced to rags.
"Claire," Vanessa said quietly, her voice trembling in a way Claire had never heard before. "When we were at the Grand Meridian... when I kicked you... when I watched Ethan pour that champagne on your head..." Vanessa looked away, tears of genuine shame welling in her eyes. "I hated you because you looked like freedom. You had nothing, but nobody owned you. Charles owned every breath I took. I thought if I made you bleed, I wouldn't have to feel my own cage."
Claire looked at her sister for a long, quiet moment. The roar of the jet engines vibrated through the metal tarmac beneath their feet.
May you like
"We survive Geneva first, Vanessa," Claire said softly, reaching out and taking her sister's trembling, cold hand. "Then you can spend the rest of your life apologizing to me. Let's go kill our mother's empire."
The cabin doors sealed shut. Ten minutes later, the black G650 tore down the runway and punched through the low gray clouds, heading east over the vast, uncaring expanse of the North Atlantic.
