My stepmother thought I was broke, so she treated me like her personal baggage handler and laughed as she sent me to Economy / Chapter 50 / 53

Chapter 50 - The Arctic Scramble

The docking procedure was an exercise in pure kinetic terror. At 48,000 feet, suspended above the frozen abyss of the Greenland Sea, the suction created by the *Valkyrie's* monstrous fuselage threatened to rip our wings off.

Every muscle in my arms locked into place as I micro-adjusted the throttle with millimeter precision.

*Clank-hiss-THUD.*

The heavy magnetic clamps of the *Valkyrie’s* ventral collar engaged with our docking ring. The hydraulic seals pressurized with a deep, reverberating clang that echoed through the structure of both aircraft. We were locked.

"Docking secure!" Clara shouted. "Hull pressure equalized!"

Arthur already had his helmet off, racking the slide of an assault shotgun he had pulled from the tactical locker. "Lucas, Clara, on me. Evelyn has her private security detail on the upper deck. But the medical stasis wing is located directly above this cargo bay."

We unbuckled from the seats, drew our weapons, and ascended the docking hatch into the dark, humming belly of the enemy cruiser.

The cargo bay smelled of aviation fuel, sterile ozone, and dry ice. Containers bearing the stolen Vance Aerospace seals were stacked ten high, tied down with heavy cargo netting. But there were no guards posted in the lower hold; Evelyn had assumed the skies were entirely hers.

We moved in a tight tactical diamond formation toward the central elevator shaft. Clara hacked the local terminal, bypassing the security firewall with the master encryption keys Arthur had carried from his sanctuary.

"Floor indicator shows high activity on the penthouse deck," Clara whispered, eyes scanning the tablet. "Evelyn is broadcasting to the Geneva Financial Summit right now. She’s attempting to execute the final liquidation of the Vance Group before international trading opens in London."

"And the medical suite?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Room 4-Bravo. Just down this corridor," Clara pointed.

We moved silently along the carpeted, pressurized corridor of the airborne mansion. Through the soundproof bulkheads, I could faintly hear the purr of the air-conditioning and the steady, rhythmic drone of the jet engines.

We reached the door of Room 4-Bravo. The biometric lock was glowing red.

Arthur stepped forward. He did not use a digital key. He placed his bare thumb against the legacy scanner and leaned into the camera.

*BIOMETRICS CONFIRMED. WELCOME, FOUNDER VANCE.*

The pneumatic door slid back without a sound.

Inside, bathed in soft, natural light filtered through the jet’s reinforced side windows, lay a bed surrounded by real, functioning medical apparatus.

There were no robotic surrogates here. No cold glass pods.

A woman with dark hair streaked with silver lay beneath a light cashmere blanket, an intravenous drip connected to her arm. Her chest rose and fell in a soft, natural rhythm.