Chapter 7 - The Bavarian Ambush
The private jet tore through the low-hanging thunderclouds above the Bavarian Alps, descending into the pitch-black fog of Oberpfaffenhofen airfield.
Rain lashed against the fuselage in sheets of silver, obscuring the pine forests that bordered the private runway outside Munich.
The wheels screeched against wet tarmac with a jarring shudder, bringing the aircraft to a halt outside a row of unlit, private hangars.
Arthur fastened the buttons of his heavy charcoal overcoat, adjusting the concealed combat knife within his inner breast pocket.
Beside him, Clara chambered a round into her father's customized handgun, her movements fluid, practiced, and lethal.
"We are entering hostile sovereign territory," Arthur warned as the hydraulic cabin stairs lowered into the freezing rain.
"Julian controls the port authorities, the border police, and half the private security firms in this region," the billionaire said.
"Then they will all die beside him," Clara replied without an ounce of hesitation.
Three black, armored Mercedes-Maybach sedans waited at the bottom of the airstrip, their engines idling with a low, menacing rumble.
The man standing beside the lead vehicle was not an ordinary chauffeur; he wore tactical body armor beneath a heavy wool trench coat.
As Arthur and Clara stepped onto the tarmac, the man bowed slightly, opening the rear door of the center vehicle.
"Herr Vance, your arrival was anticipated," the driver said with a thick Bavarian accent, his hand remaining suspiciously tucked inside his coat.
Clara did not step into the vehicle; instead, her eyes swept across the upper catwalk of the adjacent hangar.
A faint, momentary reflection of red light flickered behind the rain-streaked glass of the control tower sixty yards away.
"Sniper on the catwalk!" Clara shouted, grabbing Arthur by the lapel and driving him hard against the tarmac just as a high-caliber round shattered the car window.
The deafening crack of a suppressed rifle echoed off the steel hangars, sending shards of safety glass showering across the runway.
The driver whipped a machine pistol from his trench coat, but Clara fired two shots before he could raise the muzzle.
The first bullet took the traitor in the throat; the second drove through his chest, dropping him instantly onto the wet concrete.
"Briggs, take the tower!" Arthur roared into his comm-link, drawing a sleek semi-automatic pistol from beneath his coat.
From the rear of the Gulfstream, four Vance private operators in combat fatigues poured out, returning suppressive fire toward the hangar roof.
Two dark, heavy SUVs burst through the perimeter fence at sixty miles per hour, tires smoking as they slid sideways into a firing formation.
Armed mercenaries in sterile black uniforms stepped out, raising automatic rifles toward Arthur and Clara.
"Get inside the lead vehicle!" Clara ordered, firing through the rain to drop an advancing mercenary attempting to flank them.
Arthur lunged into the driver’s seat of the armored Maybach, kicking the dead driver’s body clear of the foot pedals.
He slammed his foot onto the gas pedal as Clara dove through the passenger window, landing flat across the leather console.
The armored vehicle surged forward with twelve cylinders of supercharged power, slamming violently into the side of the first ambush SUV.
The impact sounded like a bomb detonating on the runway, tossing the mercenary vehicle onto two wheels before spinning it off the tarmac.
Gunfire rattled across the reinforced windshield of the Maybach like hail, spider-webbing the bulletproof glass but failing to penetrate.
Clara leaned out of the passenger window, bracing her elbows on the door frame despite the freezing downpour blinding her eyes.
She placed three controlled rounds into the exposed front tire of the second pursuit SUV, sending it cartwheeling into the perimeter drainage ditch.
The vehicle exploded into a violent ball of orange fire, illuminating the dark Bavarian forest against the stormy night sky.
Arthur drifted the heavy sedan through the shattered airfield gates and accelerated onto the empty rural highway winding toward Munich.
In the rearview mirror, the sniper tower in the hangar collapsed into a fireball as Briggs’s tactical team deployed incendiary charges.
"They knew our exact flight trajectory and landing coordinates," Arthur said, his knuckles turning bone-white against the leather steering wheel.
"Julian didn't just buy the local authorities; he has a high-level mole inside our corporate flight dispatch," Clara stated, reloading her spent magazine.
She reached down and pulled the tactical radio from the dead driver’s fallen combat vest on the floorboard.
A harsh, distorted voice was already crackling over the encrypted channel in rapid, frantic German.
Clara pressed the transmitter button, speaking in flawless, icy German that silenced the panicked voice on the other end.
"Tell Julian Vance that his welcoming committee has failed," Clara spoke into the microphone.
May you like
"Tell him the guard dog’s daughter is standing on his soil," she warned with a venom that made the speaker hiss.
"And tell him to put on his best white suit, because we are coming to tear his throat out," Clara added before smashing the radio against the dashboard.
