Chapter 4 - The Ticking Clock
11:34 p.m.
Down on the street, fifty stories below the floorboards where I lay, a long black Lincoln Navigator with diplomatic plates pulled up to the curb outside the private terminal at Teterboro Airport.
Inside the terminal’s VIP lounge, Julian was leaning back on a calfskin sofa, swirling a tumbler of bourbon while Chloe flicked through a digital catalog of chalets in St. Moritz on her iPad.
"He didn't even fight back, Chlo," Julian chuckled, checking his Rolex. "Her father is a ghost. I checked the SEC filings three weeks ago. Sterling Holdings hasn't filed a 10-K since March."
"Did you get the signature on the offshore trust?" Chloe asked without looking up from her screen.
"I’ll get it Friday," Julian smiled, adjusting his collar. "She’s broken. Another two days in that apartment by herself and she’ll sign whatever I put in front of her."
The glass doors of the terminal slid open.
Two men in dark gray suits walked in. They weren't TSA officers. They didn't wear badges. They moved with the quiet, effortless efficiency of men who spent thirty years doing private security for sovereign wealth funds.
The first man walked straight to the terminal director’s desk, set down a red leather folder, and tapped the desk twice.
The director looked at the paper inside, his face draining of all color in three seconds. He didn't ask a question. He reached down, flipped the main power breaker for the private runway lights, and pulled his headset off his ears.
Outside, the jet’s engines flared down, sputtering into silence as the ground crew abruptly pulled the boarding stairs three feet away from the fuselage.
Julian sat up, his brow furrowing. "What the hell is going on out there?"
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The second man in the gray suit walked over to Julian’s sofa, pulled a fountain pen from his breast pocket, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table between Julian’s drink and Chloe’s iPad.
"Mr. Vance Sterling sends his regards," the man said softly. "Your flight has been canceled."
