Chapter 7 - The Arrest at the Private Airfield
At ten o'clock that night, under a torrential downpour that turned the runway lights of the DuPage County Executive Airport into blurry halos of orange and blue, a desperate escape was underway.
Damian Vance, wearing an old leather jacket and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, sprinted across the rain-soaked tarmac toward a twin-engine Gulfstream private charter idling near Hangar 4.
He clutched a water-damaged duffel bag containing seventy thousand dollars in cash he had borrowed from a shady private loan shark in Cicero, alongside a forged Canadian passport he had purchased three hours earlier.
"Get the engines up!" Damian screamed at the pilot as he reached the retractable airstairs. "The flight plan is filed for Toronto! We need wheels up before the federal transponder flags clear!"
Before the pilot could answer, the entire airfield perimeter was suddenly illuminated by the blinding, daylight-intensity glare of six tactical searchlights mounted on unmarked armored tactical vehicles.
A concussive siren tore through the midnight air.
Four SWAT tactical assault vehicles swarmed the tarmac, surrounding the Gulfstream in an impenetrable steel box, while twenty armed federal marshals and tactical officers flooded the runway with carbines raised.
A booming voice echoed over a tactical loudspeaker:
"Damian Vance! This is the United States Marshals Service! Step away from the aircraft stairs! Lay flat on the tarmac with your hands behind your head!"
Damian looked around wildly, his eyes wide with cornered, feral panic. He pulled a small nine-millimeter pistol from his jacket waistband, aiming the weapon toward the armored vehicles.
"I’m not going to a federal cage!" Damian screamed into the howling wind. "I built this city! You can't take everything from me!"
A single, precision non-lethal flashbang grenade was deployed from the lead armored vehicle, detonating across the asphalt five yards from his boots in a deafening roar of concussive white light.
The shockwave knocked Damian off his feet, sending the pistol clattering across the wet tarmac into the drainage grate.
Four tactical marshals moved in with blinding military speed, pinning Damian face-down onto the freezing asphalt, securing his wrists and ankles in heavy steel transport chains.
The passenger door of the lead black SUV opened slowly.
Elena Voss stepped onto the tarmac.
She wore a long black wool overcoat, her hair protected by an umbrella held by Harrison Reed. She walked across the wet concrete, her boots crunching over the gravel, stopping five paces from where Damian lay pinned to the earth.
Damian lifted his bruised, water-soaked face, his eyes locking onto hers through the driving rain.
"Elena..." Damian wept, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic sob. "Please... you can't let them bury me in Florence... I’ll give you back every dollar... I’ll sign every waiver... please..."
Elena looked down at him with the calm, immovable stillness of a mountain watching the wind blow dust away.
"You have nothing left to give me, Damian," Elena said, her voice carrying clear and steady over the roar of the jet engines. "You were given an empire, and you chose to be a thief. Now justice will have what remains."
May you like
She turned her back on him and walked toward the waiting SUV.
As the federal marshals dragged Damian Vance backward into the tactical transport in chains, his frantic, echoing cries were swallowed by the storm until the heavy steel doors slammed shut with concussive finality.
