*"Flight 882, this is Elena Carter, CEO of Horizon Air, flying alongside you in SkyGuardian One. Your avionics have been liberated. Transfer flight path control to manual waypoint Shannon, Ireland immediately. You are safe."*
Captain Chen let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. "Mrs. Carter... copy that! Shannon waypoint engaged. We have our plane back!"
Back aboard SkyGuardian One, Marcus let out a long, ragged exhale, looking over his shoulder at Elena with profound admiration. "You did it, Elena. You saved every single soul on that flight."
"We're not finished yet, Marcus," Elena said, her eyes fixed on a second red radar signature suddenly appearing on her tactical display. "Look."
A private high-speed Gulfstream was cruising ten miles ahead of them, descending rapidly toward an isolated private airstrip on the western coast of Ireland.
"That's Julian Vance's private transport," Elena realized, her voice turning into cold, diamond-hard resolve. "He was waiting on the Irish coast to collect the retrieved black-box cargo from Flight 882's wreckage after it went down. When he saw the 777 pull up, he scrambled to escape."
"His flight is heading toward a private sanctuary outside European extradition jurisdiction," Marcus noted, examining the flight vector. "If he slips into that corridor, he’ll vanish forever."
"Not on my watch," Elena said, clicking her harness tight. "Marcus, intercept that aircraft. We are forcing Julian Vance to the ground."
Chapter 21
Under Marcus Reynolds's masterful piloting, the SkyGuardian X swept across the Irish Sea, closing the distance on Julian Vance's fleeing corporate jet with unmatched supersonic speed.
Using their localized communications array, Marcus broadcast directly onto the international emergency frequency:
*"Mayday, Mayday, Shannon Air Traffic Control and British Civil Aviation Authority. This is Horizon Air SkyGuardian One. Target aircraft Gulfstream G650 tail number VP-APX is operating under suspicion of international corporate terrorism, cargo sabotage, and attempted mass casualty transit interference. Escort protocol initiated."*
Within five minutes, two Royal Air Force Eurofighter Typhoons scrambled from RAF Coningsby appeared on the horizon, flanking Vance’s aircraft on both sides. The immense pressure left Vance's pilots with no choice. Trapped between British military fighters and the relentless pursuit of SkyGuardian One, the fleeing jet was forced to divert directly toward London Heathrow Airport.
An hour later, the early dawn mist hung low over the tarmac of Heathrow Airport.
Runway Two-Seven was completely closed to commercial traffic. Dozens of police interceptors, armed counter-terrorism units, and Scotland Yard vehicles formed a massive, flashing barricade around the landing apron.
Vance's Gulfstream touched down heavily on the tarmac, followed moments later by the sleek silhouette of SkyGuardian One.
As the stairs of Vance's jet were lowered, the silver-haired billionaire stepped out onto the metal platform. His tailored coat was pristine, but his face was an unreadable mask of cold, smoldering fury.
Waiting at the bottom of the stairs, flanked by Captain Marcus Reynolds and thirty armed British police officers, was Elena Carter.
Julian Vance slowly descended the steps, stopping five feet from Elena. The flashing blue and red emergency lights reflected across his dark sunglasses.
"You are quite remarkable, Mrs. Carter," Vance said smoothly, his tone icy and devoid of fear. "You risked your life, violated half a dozen international airspace regulations, and nearly caused an international diplomatic incident. All to play the righteous crusader."
"Save your breath, Julian," Elena replied, her voice echoing with unshakable moral power across the damp tarmac. "Your safe houses in Manhattan have been raided. Arthur Sterling has already signed a full confession naming you as the head of the Apex Consortium. Lord Alistair Finch has been taken into custody by federal marshals in New York. And the black box containing your entire smuggling network has been recovered from Flight 882."
Vance smiled—a slow, sinister smile that chilled the blood of everyone standing within earshot.
"You think this is over, don't you, Elena?" Vance whispered, leaning in slightly as two Scotland Yard detectives approached with heavy steel handcuffs. "You think you've won because you put handcuffs on an old man?"
"I think justice has finally caught up with a parasite," Elena responded firmly.
The detectives grabbed Vance's arms, snapping the cold steel cuffs around his wrists. Yet, even as they turned him toward the police cruiser, Vance let out a low, mocking laugh.
"You still don't see the full board, Elena," Vance said, his eyes glittering with lethal amusement. "You think your father died of a heart attack in that Surrey bedroom five years ago? Ask yourself why he suddenly took ill forty-eight hours before he was scheduled to testify before the Senate Logistics Committee."