Chapter 11 - The Hangar on the Tarmac|
The storm outside had turned into a full-blown blizzard by the time our convoy emerged from the underground rail portal two miles from Midway Airport.
Horizontal sleet lashed against the reinforced glass of our SUV as we parked near the perimeter fence of Private Hangar 4.
Through the rain and blowing snow, I could see the massive silhouette of Arthur Lynwood's gulfstream jet sitting on the tarmac, its engines whining softly as it prepped for takeoff.
Dozens of men in heavy black coats moved around the aircraft, their rifles visible beneath their cloaks.
In the center of the tarmac, standing near the portable boarding stairs, stood my father.
Arthur Lynwood was sixty years old, wearing a tailored cashmere topcoat, a silver-topped cane in his gloved hand. He looked entirely calm, as if he were waiting for a late train rather than orchestrating the destruction of a mafia family.
I stared at him through the dark glass, my hands clenching into fists against my lap.
"He sold me five years ago to secure his shipping routes," I whispered, my voice trembling with old, bitter pain. "And now he’s trying to steal my child to secure his legacy."
Silas reached across the seat, placing his warm hand over my tight fist.
"He gave you to me, Clara," Silas said, his gray eyes burning with an intense, unwavering devotion. "And that was the only good decision he ever made in his miserable life. Now stay in the car."
"Silas, wait," I said, grabbing his sleeve as he reached for the door handle. "What are you going to do?"
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Silas looked back at me, a cold, lethal smile spreading across his face.
"I'm going to cancel his flight."
