Chapter 6 - The Checkmate
Fourteen hours later, Elias and I were sitting in an unmarked FBI van idling on the tarmac at JFK International Airport.
Special Agent Reynolds, a hardened veteran of the financial crimes division, was coordinating the tactical team.
"Harrison Vance's private jet is on approach," Reynolds said into his radio. "Bravo team, take positions at the private hangar. We want this quiet. No crossfire. The boy is the priority."
My hands were shaking so violently I had to clasp them together.
Through the tinted windows of the van, I watched the sleek white Gulfstream touch down and taxi toward the private terminal.
The jet stairs lowered.
Harrison stepped out first. He looked furious, a phone pressed aggressively to his ear. He was completely oblivious to the dozen heavily armed federal agents blending into the ground crew.
Then, Tyler stepped out behind him.
He looked so small walking down those stairs, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
"Wait for the signal," Reynolds murmured.
Tyler reached the bottom of the stairs. He looked around.
He didn't see me, but he saw the tension in the air.
Suddenly, Tyler tripped.
He fell forward, dropping his backpack. As he scrambled to pick it up, a bright red, plastic poker chip fell from his pocket and rolled across the tarmac.
The red token.
"That's the signal! Move in!" Reynolds shouted.
Before Harrison could even turn around to see why Tyler had fallen, three black SUVs surrounded the jet.
Federal agents poured out, weapons drawn.
"Harrison Vance! FBI! Put the phone down and keep your hands where we can see them!"
Harrison froze, his face draining of color.
His arrogant facade crumbled instantly. He looked at the agents, then down at Tyler, who had quickly scrambled behind a baggage cart, putting distance between himself and his father.
"What is the meaning of this?" Harrison yelled, trying to regain control. "I am a respected businessman! You have no right—"
"You're under arrest for wire fraud, money laundering, and conspiracy to commit federal offenses," Reynolds said, slapping the cuffs on Harrison's wrists.
Harrison’s eyes darted wildly, and then they landed on the van.
The door slid open.
I stepped out.
Harrison’s jaw dropped. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
He didn't know how I had escaped his men, or how the FBI had gotten his ledgers, but as he looked from me to our thirteen-year-old son, the pieces finally clicked.
"You," Harrison hissed, glaring at Tyler. "You little rat."
An agent shoved Harrison forward before he could say another word. "Keep walking, Vance."
I didn't care about Harrison anymore.
I dropped to my knees on the cold tarmac and opened my arms.
May you like
"Mom!"
Tyler sprinted across the pavement and crashed into my chest.
