Chapter 6 - The Turn
Emma stared at the insurance document, the color completely draining from her face.
Her signature was at the bottom, perfectly forged.
"He was going to kill me," she whispered, her voice hollow and fragile.
"The wedding, the vows, all of it."
"It was just a setup for a payday."
I finished tying the makeshift tourniquet around my bleeding arm.
"Yes," I said softly, feeling a pang of sorrow for my daughter.
"He never loved you, Emma."
She fell to her knees amidst the shattered glass and debris, sobbing uncontrollably.
I let her cry for exactly one minute.
Then I walked over and pulled her to her feet.
"We don't have time for tears," I told her firmly.
"If this team failed to check in, Blake will send another."
"We need to move."
I grabbed the assault rifles from the unconscious mercenaries and handed one to Emma.
She stared at the weapon like it was a venomous snake.
"I can't shoot anyone," she protested.
"You won't have to," I replied.
"Just hold it."
"It makes you look like a hard target, and hard targets don't get ambushed twice."
We slipped out the fire escape and descended into the dark alley below.
The rain had finally stopped, leaving a thick, freezing fog rolling through the city streets.
I stole a battered pickup truck from a nearby commuter lot by hotwiring the ignition.
As we drove onto the desolate highway, Emma stared out the passenger window in silence.
"Where are we going now?" she asked after an hour of driving.
"We are going to find Blake," I stated.
"I hacked his flight plan earlier."
"His jet didn't go to Europe."
"It landed at a private airstrip thirty miles outside of the city."
Emma turned to look at me, her eyes hardening for the first time since the wedding.
"Why is he still here?" she asked.
"Because he needs the original deed to Hawthorne Orchard," I explained.
"The cartel won't accept his fake signature, and they won't wait for the insurance payout."
"He needs the physical land deed to leverage the property immediately."
"And only one person knows where my mother hid that deed," Emma realized.
"Exactly," I nodded.
"He is waiting for someone to bring it to him before he takes off for good."
I pulled the truck onto a muddy dirt road that ran parallel to the private airstrip.
Through the dense trees, we could see the sleek white fuselage of a Gulfstream jet.
Several armed guards patrolled the tarmac beneath the bright security lights.
I parked the truck and handed Emma a pair of binoculars.
"Look at the hangar doors," I instructed.
She peered through the lenses and gasped loudly.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"It's Marcus," she whispered in disbelief.
May you like
"Your lawyer."
"He's handing Blake a briefcase."
