Chapter 4 - Ambush on the Tarmac
The landing was anything but standard.
The heavy aircraft slammed onto the tarmac of O'Hare International with a screech of burning rubber and reverse thrusters roaring like enraged beasts. Instead of decelerating toward the terminal, the pilot veered hard onto an auxiliary taxiway, far from the gleaming passenger concourses.
"Deploy!" Vincent shouted.
The emergency doors over the wing popped open with an explosive hiss, and yellow escape slides unfurled like giant tongues into the freezing Chicago rain.
"Franco, take Maya!" I yelled, refusing to leave her side as the wind whipped through the open fuselage.
Franco scooped Maya up with one massive arm, shielding her face from the gale, while Vincent guided me toward the slide. "Jump, Leah! Don't look down!"
I didn't hesitate. I threw myself onto the slick vinyl surface, sliding through the cold drizzle until I hit the wet pavement below. Rain instantly soaked through my thin hoodie, but the adrenaline burning in my blood kept me numb to the cold.
Across the tarmac, three black armored SUVs were already tearing toward us, their headlights cutting through the mist.
"Ours?" Franco shouted over the engine noise, setting Maya on her feet behind the shelter of the aircraft's giant landing gear.
"Ours," Vincent confirmed.
Suddenly, a crack like thunder split the air—not from the clouds, but from a row of parked cargo containers two hundred yards out. A sniper round sparked violently against the concrete just inches from Vincent's boot.
"Ambush!" Franco roared, drawing a heavy semi-automatic from his coat and returning fire blindly toward the industrial cranes.
"Get to the trucks!" Vincent ordered, shielding baby Leo with his entire body as more gunfire erupted.
Two unmarked white vans screeched around the corner of a nearby maintenance hangar, doors sliding open to reveal masked men brandishing tactical carbines. Vance had anticipated our diversion. He hadn't just watched Gate B12; he had blanketed the airfield.
Maya began to scream, terrified by the deafening cracks of gunfire. I threw myself over her, pinning her against the massive rubber tire of the airplane wheel.
"Leah, run for the center SUV!" Vincent yelled, firing three measured shots that dropped a shooter advancing from the left flank. "Now!"
I grabbed Maya’s hand and pulled her up. "Run, Maya! Look at the truck, run to the truck!"
We sprinted through the crossfire. Bullets pinged against the asphalt, sending deadly shards of stone flying through the air. Ahead of us, the rear door of the reinforced Suburban swung open, and two of Vincent's security operators stepped out, forming a human wall of Kevlar to absorb incoming rounds.
One of the masked attackers broke away from the van, flanking Vincent from behind a fueling rig. Vincent was trapped—his right arm was locked around baby Leo, his pistol dry after exhausting his magazine.
"Mr. Moretti! Behind you!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
Vincent spun just as the shooter raised his rifle. But instead of diving, Vincent used the momentum of his pivot to kick an abandoned metal wheel-chock across the wet tarmac. The heavy rubber-and-steel wedge struck the shooter's shin with a sickening crunch. The man stumbled forward, his rifle firing uselessly into the sky, just as Franco caught up and eliminated the threat with two rapid shots.
"Inside! Everyone inside!" Franco bellowed.
Vincent shoved me and Maya into the armored cabin of the SUV, threw himself in beside us, and slammed the heavy blast-resistant door shut. A second later, Franco dived into the front passenger seat, shouting, "Drive! Break through the perimeter fence!"
The heavy vehicle lurched forward, its twin-turbo engine screaming as it smashed through a chain-link gate and burst onto the public access road.
Inside the vehicle, the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the panting of grown men and the terrified whimpers of two small children.
Vincent looked down at his son. Leo was miraculously unharmed, blinking up at the ceiling lights. Vincent then looked at his own sleeve—a neat tear showed where a sniper bullet had grazed his coat, missing his artery by less than an inch.
He slowly turned his gaze toward me.
"You called out that flanker," Vincent said, his voice quiet, raw with an emotion I couldn't decipher. "You could have stayed in the truck. You could have hidden."
"You were holding Leo," I said simply, shivering violently as Maya buried her wet face into my neck. "If you dropped him, he would have died."
Vincent stared at me for several long seconds. Then, slowly, the iron-faced underworld kingpin reached out a trembling hand and gently brushed a wet strand of hair from my forehead.
"You're not going to Aunt Celia's, Leah," he said softly. "Aunt Celia’s house was raided two hours ago. My men found it empty. Julian Vance is turning this entire country upside down looking for whatever your mother took from him."
"Where is my mom?" I choked out, the tears I had fought back for four days finally spilling over my cheeks. "Is she dead?"
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"If Vance had killed her, he wouldn't be trying this hard to find you," Vincent replied, his voice hardening into solid iron. "She’s alive. She’s hiding, or she’s captured. And as God is my witness, Leah... we are going to tear this city apart until we get her back."
***
