Chapter 7 - The Desperate Fugitive
Rain hammered against the glass canopy of the Terminal 4 departures curb at John F. Kennedy International Airport.
Marcus dragged a heavy designer carry-on bag through the downpour, his trench coat soaked, his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He had abandoned his sports car three blocks away after hitting traffic, running the remaining distance on foot.
His phone was buzzing uncontrollably in his pocket. It had been vibrating for four hours straight. Text messages from his bank informing him of frozen accounts. Missed calls from Richard Sterling’s private security contractors. Notifications from Twitter where his name was the number one trending topic worldwide: *#MarcusVanceArrest*.
He sprinted through the revolving doors into the terminal, his breath ragged, his chest burning.
He didn't need to clear the regular security line. He had paid fifty thousand dollars in cash that morning to a corrupt private jet charter broker who had promised him an unmarked Gulfstream out of the private aviation hanger on the south runway.
All he had to do was cross the private executive corridor.
He pushed through the heavy service doors leading to the VIP charter lounge.
The lounge was empty, save for three people standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the tarmac.
Harrison Cole sat in a leather armchair, a silver-topped cane resting between his knees.
Beside him stood Julian Vance, holding an umbrella, his posture as calm and immovable as a fortress.
And standing right in the center of the lounge, her hands resting quietly in the pockets of a tailored trench coat, was me.
Marcus froze. His luggage slipped from his numb fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud.
He spun around to run back through the double doors, but the doors swung open, and four federal agents wearing dark windbreakers with the letters **FBI** emblazoned across the back stepped inside, blocking the only exit.
“Marcus,” I said, my voice echoing gently across the quiet lounge.
Marcus slowly turned back around. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollowed out with manic, primal terror.
“How?” Marcus whispered, his voice cracking. “How did you know about the charter? I paid cash... I didn't use any electronic accounts!”
“The private charter company you hired is a subsidiary of Cole Logistics, Marcus,” Julian said, stepping forward. “We’ve owned it for twelve years. You literally booked your getaway through Rebecca’s private transport coordinator.”
A sickening sound escaped Marcus’s throat—half laugh, half sob. He fell to his knees on the plush VIP carpet, clutching his head with both hands.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he wailed, looking up at me with tears streaming down his rain-streaked face. “We were happy once, Rebecca! Remember our first apartment in Queens? We ate Chinese takeout on the floor! I loved you!”
“You loved the convenience of me,” I answered, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him until I was looking down at him. “You loved that I wrote your algorithms so you could sleep until noon. You loved that I ironed your shirts, that I handled your investors, and that I never asked for credit. You didn't love me, Marcus. You loved the reflection of yourself you saw in the mirror I built for you.”
“I’ll give everything back!” Marcus pleaded, crawling forward an inch on his knees, his hands reaching for the hem of my coat before Julian stepped between us, his boot firmly planting itself inches from Marcus’s fingers. “Take the shares! Take the money! Take Apex! Just drop the charges, Rebecca! Please! I can’t go to prison! I won’t survive in there!”
“You let my aunt die alone in pain to save fifty thousand dollars,” I said, every word hitting him like a hammer blow. “You sent me an email ending our life together while I was bathing her forehead with a damp cloth in a charity ward. Did you think about survival then, Marcus?”
Marcus had no answer. He could only weep, his forehead pressed against the floor, broken and utterly defeated.
The lead FBI agent stepped forward, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt.
“Marcus Vance, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit wire fraud, computer sabotage, and grand larceny. You have the right to remain silent.”
The cold click of the handcuffs ratcheting around Marcus’s wrists was the most definitive sound I had ever heard.
As the agents hauled him to his feet and began leading him toward the service elevator, Marcus turned back one last time.
“Rebecca... please...”
I met his gaze for two seconds. Then, without a word, I turned my back on him and looked out the window at the rain sweeping across the tarmac.
The elevator doors chimed and closed.
May you like
Marcus was gone.
***
