Chapter 29 - The Frozen Runway
The biting Canadian wind howled across the desolate expanse of the private airstrip outside Montreal, kicking up blinding drifts of powdery snow that danced under the harsh glare of halogen floodlights. Parked at the far end of the tarmac sat a sleek, black Gulfstream G650 bearing no registration numbers—the unmistakable transport of the Bennett syndicate.
Inside the heated cabin of the Moretti private jet idling fifty yards away, Gabriel stood at the reinforced cabin door, binoculars pressed to his eyes. Through the swirling white squall, he could see a small procession moving across the open tarmac toward the waiting Montreal aircraft.
Clara walked in the center, her head held high, her emerald-green shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders against the sub-zero chill. On her right, a tall, burly mercenary held a firm grip on her arm. Walking just ahead of them, bundled tightly in a pink winter coat, was little Lily, her small hand held by an elderly man whose face was completely obscured by the deep hood of a heavy fur-lined coat.
Julian Bennett.
Gabriel lowered the binoculars, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. He turned to Dante and a dozen elite enforcers who stood silently in the narrow aisle of the cabin, checking magazines and racking the bolts of their assault rifles with a synchronized metallic chorus.
"Remember the rules," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that preceded a storm. "I want Clara and Lily back alive. Anyone else on that tarmac... do not hesitate."
The cabin door of the Moretti jet hissed open, letting in a bitter blast of arctic air. Gabriel was the first to step out onto the freezing metal staircase, his dark wool coat snapping violently in the gale.
As his boots hit the snow-covered tarmac, the figures across the airstrip stopped. The elderly man in the fur-lined hood slowly turned around, pushing back his hood to reveal a face carved from ancient stone—seamed with deep wrinkles, framed by piercing, cold gray eyes that mirrored Clara’s own.
Julian Bennett raised a gloved hand, holding a small, silver detonator in his palm. Across the open space, the red LED light on the detonator began to blink with a steady, menacing pulse, wired directly to the fuel reserves of the Moretti jet idling behind them.
"Welcome to my home, grandson-in-law," Julian’s voice carried effortlessly across the frozen wind, dripping with centuries of malice. "You walked right into the den of the wolf. Now, let’s see how you plan to get your family out alive."
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Before Gabriel could take a single step forward, the heavy steel security gates at the perimeter of the airfield exploded outward in a blinding sheet of orange fire, as a second, uninvited army of heavy armored vehicles poured onto the tarmac from the treeline—bearing neither Moretti nor Bennett colors, but the crest of a third, terrifyingly unknown syndicate.
The war for the throne was no longer a two-way blood feud. The trap had just snapped shut on everyone.
