"Elena," Marcus said, turning from the cockpit jumpseat, "we can't land at any commercial airport in Europe. Vance’s legal team already triggered Interpol blue notices. The moment our passports hit an immigration terminal, we’re locked up in an extradition holding cell."
"We don't need an immigration terminal," Elena replied, leaning forward. "My father had a private sanctuary. An off-the-books hangar at a defunct regional strip in the Jura Mountains near the Swiss border. He called it 'Hangar 9'. He told me when I was eighteen that if the company ever faced a catastrophic crisis, there was an analog backup server stored inside a decommissioned DC-3 airframe."
"Analog?" Sarah asked, her eyebrows furrowing. "In the age of cloud networks?"
"My father didn't trust digital clouds after the 2008 financial crash," Elena explained. "He knew that anyone with enough money could hack, erase, or fabricate digital records. The real operational ledgers—signed in physical ink, along with the audio tapes of every secret board meeting between him and Evelyn—are stored on magnetic reels in the belly of that plane."
Two hours later, the helicopter descended through dense mountain fog into a secluded valley surrounded by towering alpine pines. A lone asphalt runway, half-covered in moss and encroaching weeds, appeared between the craggy cliffs.
The helicopter touched down with a soft thud. Elena stepped out into the crisp, biting mountain air. Ahead of them stood an ancient corrugated-steel hangar, its doors rusted shut by decades of winter snow.
Marcus used a heavy iron prybar from the chopper's emergency kit to break the chain. With a groaning screech of rusted metal, the doors parted, revealing the gleaming aluminum fuselage of a vintage 1944 Douglas DC-3, perfectly preserved within the climate-controlled structure.
"It's pristine," Sarah breathed in awe.
"My father came here twice a year," Elena said softly, stepping inside the dimly lit hangar. "He came here to remember what honest flying felt like."
They climbed the short ladder into the cargo compartment of the classic aircraft. Behind a faux bulkhead at the rear of the cabin, Elena located a heavy brass combination lock. She spun the dials to her father’s first pilot license number: 0-4-1-8-2-6.
A heavy mechanical click echoed through the fuselage.
The panel swung open. Inside lay three steel lockboxes containing dozens of magnetic reel-to-reel tapes, alongside stacks of bound, notarized financial ledgers stamped with the Carter family seal.
"This is it," Sarah exclaimed, pulling out an inspection ledger. "Every bribe Evelyn took. Every off-the-books shell company Arthur Sterling set up under her direct verbal authorization. These documents prove she orchestrated the entire supply chain failure!"
Suddenly, the red emergency beacon above the hangar doors flashed to life. The sharp, rhythmic thump of heavy rotors reverberated through the valley walls.
Marcus rushed to the hangar window, peering into the fog. "We’ve got company! Two black attack choppers, no transponders, circling the ridge! They tracked our chopper's transponder ping!"
Elena clenched her fists, staring at the archives. "She won't let us leave this mountain alive. Pack the reels, Marcus. We take the DC-3."
Chapter 25
"Take the DC-3?!" Sarah screamed over the deafening whine of approaching gunships. "Mrs. Carter, this plane is eighty years old! It belongs in the Smithsonian, not in an active combat escape!"
"This plane has two Pratt & Whitney radial engines that were overhauled by the best master mechanics in Europe six months ago," Elena shouted back, hauling two heavy boxes of magnetic tapes toward the cockpit. "And unlike modern jets, it doesn't have an avionics computer that Evelyn Carter can remotely hack or shut down!"
"She's right, Sarah!" Marcus yelled, already strapping himself into the left captain's seat of the vintage cockpit. He began flipping massive, heavy toggle switches. "Fuel pumps on! Magnetos hot! Clear prop!"
Elena threw herself into the right seat, grabbing the heavy wooden control yoke. With a furious sputter and a massive cloud of white exhaust smoke, the left radial engine coughed, sputtered, and roared to life with a thunderous, visceral growl. Seconds later, the right engine caught fire, the massive twin propellers spinning into a blur of pure kinetic power.
Outside, the first black gunship descended over the tree line. Men in tactical armor opened the side doors, raising assault rifles. Muzzle flashes erupted in the fog. Rounds stitched across the corrugated steel roof of the hangar, sending showers of sparks raining down onto the plane.