Chapter 11 - Blood on the runway
The private airstrip outside of Teterboro was bathed in the harsh, sterile glow of halogen floodlights, casting long, menacing shadows across the tarmac where Damian Caruso’s twin-engine Gulfstream sat idling, its jet turbines whining with a deafening, high-pitched shriek.
Rain began to sheet down in heavy, horizontal lines, driven by a brutal autumn wind that whipped Damian’s dark coat around his broad shoulders as he strode down the steps of his armored SUV.
His phone buzzed in his tactical vest pocket.
He pulled it out with gloved hands, answering without breaking his rapid stride toward the aircraft steps.
"Report," Damian barked, his voice cutting cleanly through the roar of the jet engines and the howling wind.
"Boss, it's Luca," came the satellite-relayed voice through the earpiece, sounding slightly out of breath but entirely under control. "The rat pack that hit the estate is neutralized. Three down, two captured alive in the perimeter woods. They carried Moretti insignia on their inner linings."
Damian’s stride stuttered for a fraction of a second, a dark, murderous fury flashing across his chiselled features.
"Did they touch Clara or Leah?" Damian demanded, every muscle in his body locking into rigid, lethal tension.
"Negative, boss," Luca replied immediately. "The perimeter held, and... well, you might want to hear this later, but your new wife has quite a swing with a heavy brass statue. She took down one of the intruders herself before my boys even cleared the hallway."
A strange, complex emotion flickered in Damian’s dark eyes—pride, shock, and a searing wave of protective adoration that burned hotter than any gunfire.
"Keep them locked in the basement vault," Damian commanded, his voice dropping into an ice-cold register. "Interrogate the survivors. Use whatever methods are necessary. I want to know every single name of everyone in the Moretti family who authorized this hit."
"Understood, boss. What about your flight?"
"Wheels up in two minutes," Damian said, severing the connection as he reached the metal stairs of the Gulfstream.
He climbed aboard the aircraft, the heavy cabin door sealing shut behind him, cutting off the deafening roar of the storm outside.
Inside the plush, leather-paneled interior of the private jet, three elite members of his personal security detail sat strapped into their seats, their assault rifles resting securely across their knees.
Damian dropped into the leather seat at the head of the conference table, pulling up the decrypted files Luca had forwarded from the Zurich server just minutes before.
On the screen flickered a digital dossier labeled: Project Janus — Dr. Heinrich Vance.
Damian scrolled through the encrypted medical records, financial wire transfers, and forged adoption decrees until his finger hovered over a single address in the heart of Bogota’s most exclusive, heavily guarded cartel-controlled enclave.
Vance wasn't just hiding; he was sitting under the direct protection of the Moretti cartel’s South American shipping boss.
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Damian looked up from the screen, his dark eyes fixing on the lead tactical officer across the aisle.
"Adjust the flight plan," Damian ordered coldly, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. "We aren't just landing in Bogota. We're going to pay a very special visit to the man protecting Dr. Vance. And we're going to leave a message the entire underworld will never forget."
