Chapter 9 - Blood on the Runway

The gunshot cracked inside the metal hangar like a lightning strike.

The .38 caliber slug tore clean through the fleshy meat of Grant’s left shoulder, spraying bright red mist onto the concrete. Grant stumbled, a sharp grunt escaping his teeth, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins drowned out the pain. He didn't drop the wrench. He didn't even slow down.

Before Hayes could cock the hammer for a second shot, Grant closed the distance.

He swung the two-foot heavy steel pipe wrench with both hands. The solid iron head slammed directly into Hayes’s right wrist with a sickening crunch. The revolver flew out of the attorney's shattered grip, skittering twenty feet across the tarmac and sliding into a drainage grate.

Hayes shrieked in agony, clutching his mangled wrist to his chest. "Grant—wait! We can split it! Fifty-fifty! You can get on the plane with me!"

"You tried to leave me for the wolves, Donald," Grant snarled, stepping into the dim light. Blood was rapidly soaking the left sleeve of his stolen blue mechanic jumpsuit. His eyes were wide, glassy, and completely detached from sanity. "You burned the cabin with Richard inside so nobody could prove who Sarah was. You thought you'd keep the entire trust."

Grant drove a heavy work boot into Hayes’s gut, dropping the lawyer to his knees. He snatched the leather briefcase from Hayes’s limp fingers, popped the brass latches, and flipped the lid.

Inside lay thick bands of hundred-dollar bills, offshore bearer bonds, and a yellowed manila envelope stamped ST. JUDE MEMORIAL — SEALED ADOPTION RECORDS 1994.

"You're a dead man either way, Grant," Hayes gasped, coughing on his own spit, backing away on his elbows. "You escaped a sheriff transport vehicle! You assaulted an officer! Every cop in the tri-county area is hunting you right now!"

"Let them hunt," Grant whispered, clutching the briefcase against his ribs. "With this, I don't exist anymore."

He raised the wrench high above Hayes’s skull to finish him.

"DROP THE WEAPON!"

A blinding white halogen beam cut through the hangar shadows, pinning Grant in place.

Detective Bell was standing forty yards away at the hangar side entrance, both hands locked around his Glock 19, arms rigid, front sight aligned dead-center on Grant’s chest. Behind him, three SWAT officers in full tactical gear fanned out with short-barreled carbines, laser dots dancing across Grant’s throat and torso.

"Step away from him, Grant," Bell commanded, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "Put the wrench down and get on your knees."

Grant froze. He looked at the red laser dots painting his chest, then down at the ruined lawyer at his feet, and finally toward the runway outside where flashing red and blue strobe lights were already reflecting off the rain-slicked asphalt.

Grant gave a low, bitter chuckle. "You think you won, Bell? You think locking me up changes what Maisie is? You think my mother will ever be able to look at that kid without wanting to vomit?"

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"Put the wrench down," Bell repeated, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger.

Grant didn't drop it. Instead, he swung the heavy iron wrench around and hurled it straight at Bell’s head while lunging for the cockpit ladder of the running jet.