Chapter 18 - War at TeterboroA ferocious summer thunderstorm battered New Jersey. Sheet rain lashed against the tarmac of Teterboro Airport, blurring the flashing yellow lights of ground crews and private jets.
Inside Hangar 4, a sleek black Gulfstream G650 stood with its turbine engines whining, ready for taxying.
Charles Whitmore paced near the boarding stairs, clutching a heavy leather briefcase containing encrypted cold-storage cryptocurrency wallets and forged diplomatic passports. Beside him stood Eleanor Whitmore, pale and trembling in a rain-soaked mink coat, her wrists bound in zip-ties.
"Move your feet, Eleanor!" Charles barked, shoving her toward the jet stairs. "I didn't spend thirty years building an empire to rot in a federal prison because of your useless sons!"
"They will stop you, Charles," Eleanor spat, her voice shaking with righteous anger. "Adrian knows. Scott is alive. You've lost."
"I haven't lost a damn thing!" Charles roared over the whine of the engines.
Suddenly, every floodlight inside the hangar exploded in a shower of sparks.
The hangar was instantly plunged into pitch darkness, illuminated only by the rhythmic flashes of lightning outside. Simultaneously, the jet’s turbine engines shuddered and died as the digital fuel-injection systems were remotely fried by an outside signal.
"What happened?!" Charles screamed, ducking as sirens began to blare across the airport perimeter. "Vance! Get this plane started!"
From the dark corners of the hangar, silenced gunshots began to echo.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
Four Vanguard mercenaries stationed near the hangar doors dropped without making a sound. Marcus was firing from the catwalks above, taking down targets with terrifying precision.
"Charles!" a voice boomed through the shadowy hangar. It was deep, resonant, and dripping with absolute authority.
Adrian stepped out of the shadows into the flashes of lightning. He wore no helmet, no tactical mask. Just his dark suit, soaked with rain, his gray eyes burning like cold iron.
Charles stumbled backward, drawing a silver revolver from his coat and grabbing Eleanor, pulling her tightly against his chest as a shield. "Stay back! Step one foot closer and I put a bullet in her head, Adrian! I swear to God I will!"
From the side door, Vance stumbled out into the light, holding an assault rifle with his left hand. "Boss... I’ll kill him!"
Before Vance could raise his weapon, a shadow materialized behind him.
Scott Whitmore stepped out from behind a stack of crate cargo, holding a heavy steel tire iron. With a roar of pure, eight-year-old fury, Scott swung the iron with everything he had, striking Vance squarely across the knees.
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Vance screamed as his legs collapsed under him. Scott didn't stop; he delivered a brutal backhand strike that sent Vance crashing face-first onto the concrete floor, out cold.
"That's for Saint Matthew's," Scott gasped, breathing heavily as he stood over his former tormentor.
