Chapter 7 - What Daniel Carter Left Behind
The night air outside the Ashford Hotel was freezing, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the ballroom.
Two black armored Suburbans were already idling at the curb, their heavy diesel engines rumbling through the pavement. Flashing strobe lights cut through the darkness, illuminating the rain that had begun to mist across the asphalt.
Ethan shed his tuxedo jacket, throwing it into the front seat of the lead vehicle. Beneath it, his shoulder holster was already strapped tightly against his chest, housing a customized Sig Sauer P320. A tactical windbreaker with subdued federal markings was tossed to him by an MP, which he zipped up in one smooth motion.
He turned to me, holding out a matching windbreaker.
I looked down at my evening gown—the ivory silk stained with a drop of blood, the hem wet from the pavement.
I didn't hesitate. I caught the silk at my knee and ripped the lower skirt away, tearing the restrictive fabric down to the thigh to give my legs full range of motion. I pulled on the windbreaker, zipped it tight, and took the service weapon Colonel Harrison handed me.
The weight of the cold steel in my hand felt more natural than any glass of champagne I had held all night.
"Target is twelve minutes out from Dulles Signature Flight Support," Harrison reported from the passenger seat, tapping his tactical tablet. "FAA has confirmed an Apex Global Gulfstream G650 on the private tarmac, engines spooling for departure. The pilot filed an emergency flight plan citing urgent corporate travel. ATC is stalling them, but the pilot is threatening to taxi without clearance."
"Ram the gates if you have to," Ethan said into the comms unit. "Let's roll."
Tires screamed against the wet pavement as the convoy surged into the night, sirens wailing, clearing traffic through the Virginia parkway like a black arrow.
I sat in the back beside Ethan, watching the green tracking dot pulse on the navigation screen. Every pulse felt like my father’s heartbeat, echoing across three years of silence and grief.
"Natalie," Ethan said, reaching over to take my hand. His grip was steady, grounding me amidst the chaos. "Whatever is on those drives... we'll handle it. Together."
"Dad knew," I murmured, staring at the flashing screen. "He knew he wasn't coming back from that deployment. That's why he designated the fund to me, Ethan. He didn't leave it to me because he loved me more than Chloe. He left it to me because he knew I was the only one in the family who took the oath."
"He was proud of you," Ethan said softly. "The night before he deployed, he sat in my office at Fort Bragg. He told me: *'Ethan, if anything happens to me, don't protect my name. Protect my daughter. She's the best soldier I ever trained.'*"
A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it down, channeling the grief into cold, crystalline focus.
"Ten seconds to the perimeter gate!" the driver shouted.
Ahead, the high-security gates of the private terminal at Dulles loomed through the rain. Beyond the fence, on the wide expanse of tarmac, the sleek white silhouette of the Gulfstream G650 sat under the floodlights, twin jet engines roaring, heat shimmer blurring the rain behind its tail.
A black Mercedes Maybach was parked directly beside the aircraft's boarding stairs.
"Breach!" Ethan commanded.
The heavy steel push-bumper of the lead Suburban smashed directly into the electronic gate. The chain-link fence tore open with a violent metallic screech, concrete mounting posts snapping like toothpicks.
We burst onto the tarmac, water spraying in massive sheets from our tires.
Near the aircraft, two private security guards in black tactical vests reached for their holsters.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!" Harrison bellowed through the external loudspeaker.
The two guards took one look at three armored Suburbans, the flashing strobes, and six automatic rifles pointing out of the lowering windows, and immediately threw their hands in the air, dropping to their knees on the wet asphalt.
The door of the Maybach flew open.
Julian Sterling stepped out, carrying a heavy metallic Pelican case handcuffed to his left wrist. He looked toward the breached gate, saw the federal convoy bearing down on him, and panicked.
He turned and bolted up the airstairs toward the open cabin door of the jet.
"Ethan!" I shouted.
"I've got the pilot," Ethan barked, jumping from the moving vehicle before it had even fully stopped. He drew his weapon, aiming directly at the cockpit window, signaling the flight crew to cut the engines.
I launched myself out the passenger side, my boots hitting the wet tarmac.
The jet wash whipped my hair across my face, the roar of the engines deafening. The mist of jet fuel and rain burned my eyes, but my gaze was locked on the man on the stairs.
Julian Sterling reached the top platform, turning to pull the cabin door shut.
I cleared the tarmac in five seconds, vaulted onto the lower steps, and took the stairs three at a time.
May you like
Just as the hydraulic door began to swing closed, I wedged the barrel of my weapon into the frame, grabbed Sterling’s soaked collar with my left hand, and hauled him backward with every ounce of momentum in my body.
***
