Chapter 8 - The Escape Route
At 4:15 PM, at the private executive terminal of Blackwood Regional Airport, a sleek Gulfstream IV sat on the tarmac, its twin jet engines whining as they spun up to idle.
Donald Hayes, a slick fifty-year-old attorney in a tailored charcoal suit, stood inside the hangar, clutching a heavy leather briefcase. He glanced nervously at his gold Rolex.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He tapped his earpiece.
"Talk to me," Hayes said.
"Grant’s in holding at county," a voice on the line whispered. "The cops have his phone, and Vanessa turned over the lockbox. The lake house is a total loss, but Richard talked before he flatlined."
"Damn it!" Hayes cursed, pacing toward the hangar doors. "Did Bell get the safe deposit key?"
"Yes. They’re heading to the bank right now."
"It doesn't matter," Hayes sneered, tightening his grip on the briefcase. "I have the primary bearer bonds, the original adoption forged filings, and the offshore transfer authorizations right here. Once this jet crosses into international airspace toward Panama, they can't touch a single dollar. Tell Grant he’s on his own."
Hayes ended the call, tossed the burner phone onto the concrete floor, and crushed it beneath the heel of his Italian leather oxford.
He turned toward the mobile boarding stairs, nodding to the pilot who gave a thumbs-up from the cockpit window.
Hayes took three steps toward the plane.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
High above the tarmac, the massive automated hangar doors suddenly ground to a halt and began rolling backward, sealing the exit with a deafening metallic screech.
The hangar lights flickered and went out, plunging the space into dim gray twilight.
"What the hell?" Hayes shouted toward the ground crew. "Who touched the doors?!"
From the shadows behind a row of fuel barrels, a figure stepped forward.
It wasn't a police officer. It wasn't Detective Bell.
It was Grant Calloway.
He was wearing a mechanic’s grease-stained jumpsuit, his face pale, eyes bloodshot and wild, carrying a heavy steel pipe wrench in his right hand.
Hayes stumbled backward, his eyes bulging in terror. "Grant?! How did you get out? You’re supposed to be in county lockup!"
Grant didn't smile. A dark, terrifying look of unhinged fury twisted his features as he dragged the heavy wrench along the concrete, creating a high-pitched screech that echoed through the empty hangar.
"You took my briefcase, Donald," Grant said, his voice deadly calm. "You set the fire before I could get my cut. And you thought you were going to fly away on my money while I took the fall for Maisie."
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Hayes fumbled inside his coat pocket, reaching for a small snub-nosed revolver. "Stay back, Grant! I swear to God, I’ll put a bullet through your head!"
Grant didn't stop. He lunged forward with a feral scream just as Hayes pulled the trigger.
