Chapter 8 - The Runaway Prince
Blackwood Regional Airport was little more than a single asphalt runway surrounded by rusty hangars and chain-link fencing, usually reserved for crop dusters and private charters belonging to the county's wealthiest timber barons.
Rain lashed against our windshield as Miller’s truck slid through the open gate of Hangar 4.
On the tarmac, the twin propellers of a sleek white King Air turboprop were already whining to life, kicking up clouds of mist into the glare of the runway floodlights. A silver Porsche was parked crookedly by the mobile boarding stairs, driver-side door left wide open.
Julian Mercer—the golden boy whose reckless driving had triggered four years of misery, lies, and betrayal—was struggling to hoist three heavy leather duffel bags up the stairs into the cabin.
"Miller, block the nose gear," I commanded.
Miller swerved the heavy truck, slamming the front bumper directly against the plane’s front tire assembly with a jarring crunch. The pilot immediately killed the engines as safety alarms began wailing inside the cockpit.
Julian dropped his duffel bag. It spilled open across the wet aluminum steps, scattering stacks of bundled hundred-dollar bills into the wind. He spun around, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from his cashmere coat, his face pale with frantic terror.
"Stay back!" Julian shrieked over the dying whine of the turbines. "My father will ruin you! He has senators on his payroll! You can't touch me!"
A squad car tore through the gate, sirens wailing, blue and red lights splashing across the tarmac. Ben Carter leaped out from behind the cruiser door, service weapon drawn and leveled.
"Julian Mercer! Drop the weapon!" Carter shouted, his voice cracking with authority. "Drop it right now!"
"Shut up, Carter!" Julian screamed, backing toward the plane door. "You were on my dad’s payroll since you were a rookie! You took the hunting lodge passes! You looked the other way when I wrecked that girl's bike!"
"And that's why I'm here tonight, Julian," Carter yelled back, stepping forward into the rain. "To put an end to the filth we let your family spread over this valley. Drop the gun, or by God, I will fire."
Julian looked wildly between Carter's gun, Miller's carbine, and me. He was cornered, pathetic, a spoiled prince whose kingdom had turned to ash in a single weekend.
I walked toward the foot of the stairs, entirely unfazed by the trembling barrel pointed at my chest.
"You let my parents destroy my name so you could keep driving your sports cars," I said, each word deliberate and ice-cold. "You let a sixteen-year-old girl die in a ditch, and you let my sister get beaten half to death to protect your inheritance."
"It was an accident!" Julian sobbed, his hand shaking violently. "Your dad offered! He said you were a soldier, that your reputation didn't matter because you'd probably die over there anyway! He asked for the money!"
"And now," I said, stepping onto the first rung of the metal stairs, "the bill is due."
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Julian's courage broke completely. His fingers loosened, and the revolver clattered down the metal steps, splashing into a puddle at my feet. He collapsed onto his knees, covering his face as Ben Carter rushed up and wrenched his arms behind his back, ratcheting the steel cuffs tight.
***