Chapter 9 - The Hangar At Midnight
Stewart International Airport was blanketed in a thick, suffocating mist that rolled off the Hudson River.
Runway lights glowed like blurred emerald and amber stars in the blinding rain.
At the northern perimeter of the airfield, far from the commercial terminals, sat Hangar Seven.
The hangar was isolated behind two layers of chain-link fence topped with razor wire, designated for private government logistics and VIP charter flights.
A sleek, twin-engine Gulfstream G550 jet sat on the tarmac outside the hangar doors, its jet engines idling with a high-pitched, deafening whine that vibrated through the asphalt.
The cabin lights were dim, and the stairs were lowered, ready for immediate departure.
Emma and Adrian pulled their mud-spattered, bullet-dented SUV into the tree line two hundred yards from the security gate.
Through her tactical binoculars, Emma surveyed the perimeter.
Four men in black tactical gear and Kevlar vests patrolled the perimeter fence, carrying foreign submachine guns with folding stocks.
Inside the brightly lit glass mezzanine of the hangar office, two figures stood silhouetted against the fluorescent light.
Peter Lawson, wearing his charcoal wool overcoat, holding a silver coffee thermos with casual arrogance.
And beside him stood a small, frail figure in a navy blue jacket with yellow piping.
Noah.
Emma’s breath hitched in her throat, her chest aching with such violent intensity she had to press her palm against her sternum to breathe.
Noah was alive.
He was standing by the glass window, looking down at the dark tarmac with tired, frightened eyes, clutching the chipped plastic astronaut zipper pull on his coat.
He looked exhausted, his hair messy, his small shoulders slumped under the weight of an ordeal no nine-year-old child should have ever endured.
"I see him," Adrian whispered, lowering his own night-vision scope.
"He's in the second-floor observation office."
"Lawson has him positioned right in the window to draw you into the center of the tarmac."
"It's a kill box, Emma."
"The moment you walk into the light of those floodlights, his snipers on the hangar roof will take you out."
"I know," Emma said, her voice turning completely flat, cold, and emotionless.
"Which is why I am not walking out there alone."
Emma reached into her vest pocket and pulled out her federal credential badge, looking at the tarnished gold shield in the dark cab.
"Lawson thinks he controls the state police and the airport security detail," Emma said.
"He doesn't know that three days ago, before I infiltrated your estate, I established an emergency priority channel with the New York State Police Special Operations Division."
"I told them to monitor this frequency for a high-priority federal fugitive alert."
Adrian raised an eyebrow, a grim smile touching his lips.
"You set up a contingency to burn your own agency?"
"I set up a contingency to burn anyone who got between me and my brother," Emma replied.
"Adrian, I need you to create a diversion on the eastern fuel depot."
"If you breach the perimeter gate with this armored rig and detonate the auxiliary fuel tank, every security camera and guard on the tarmac will turn toward the explosion."
Adrian looked at her, his slate-gray eyes glittering with lethal amusement.
"You want me to commit federal terrorism on an international airport tarmac?"
"You're a mafia boss, Adrian," Emma said, handing him an extra drum magazine for his assault rifle.
"Act like one."
Adrian laughed—a low, genuine sound that cut through the tension of the stormy night.
"I like you, Agent Carter. It’s a shame we met under false pretenses."
Adrian grabbed the gear shift of the armored SUV, checking his sidearm one final time.
"Give me three minutes to get into position behind the cargo sheds," Adrian said.
"The moment you hear the blast, breach the hangar’s southern utility door."
"Don't worry about Lawson’s shooters on the roof."
"I'll make sure they have other things to look at."
Emma reached across the console, picked up the three water-damaged ledgers, and shoved them into a heavy tactical backpack.
She slipped out of the passenger door, disappearing into the dark, rain-soaked grass like a wraith.
The storm swallowed her completely.
She moved along the perimeter fence, using wire cutters to slice through the lower links of the chain-link barrier with silent, methodical speed.
She slipped beneath the steel wire, her boots silent against the wet tarmac as she moved behind a row of parked baggage trailers.
Her watch clicked to midnight.
Across the airfield, the night sky shattered into an apocalyptic column of fire and thunder.
The armored SUV had smashed directly through the eastern security gate at sixty miles an hour, ramming into an auxiliary aviation fuel container near the maintenance sheds.
The resulting explosion sent a massive fireball rolling five hundred feet into the storm clouds, illuminating the entire airfield in blinding, brilliant orange.
Sirens began to wail across the facility, their shrieks cutting through the roar of the jet engines.
The armed contractors guarding Hangar Seven shouted frantically into their radios, their rifles pivoting toward the towering inferno on the eastern perimeter.
In the second-floor observation room, Peter Lawson spun toward the window, his face contorted in sudden, furious shock.
May you like
Emma did not look back at the flames.
She kicked open the southern emergency exit of Hangar Seven, raised her weapon, and charged into the lion's den.
