Page 101 of Isaac

Jeremy lets out a sound of discontent that is difficult to pinpoint. After a moment, he responds with a tense expression. "Alright. Whatever you say, man. You’re the boss."

"And send Hector to check it out tomorrow first thing in the morning."

The following night our convoy of four vehicles speeds toward the private airport outside the city. I’m in the passenger seat next to Jeremy. He’s driving. Flynn and Hawk are in the backand Hawk’s presence has me nearly shaking. Tension coils tight in my chest from his proximity.

A few stolen moments in the hotel elevator today was all I could afford with all the shit going on.

A piece of me yearns to reach out, to trail my fingertips along his silhouette just to confirm he’s real, not some ethereal ghost slipping away in the night. Yet another part of me, a more rational, mind-saving fragment, tells me to rein in my desires, cautioning against any overt act that would make it too obvious.

My window is down and the night air whips around us inside the car, hot and unforgiving, as if trying to warn us of the danger. The thing is danger is all we know. The headlights ahead of us stretch out into the desert like mystic fingers, reaching for something they can never grasp.

"Almost there, boss," Jeremy comments, his gaze locked onto the navigation's bright glow, his voice steady as he cruises the winding road, maneuvering around the sandy boulders.

"Good," I reply curtly, my attention fixed on the dark horizon, searching for any sign of the airport. "Everyone good to go?" I ask into the void. Ricky and Hawk murmur affirmative from the back seat.

I grab my phone and dial Hector, who is in the car behind. "You sure there’s no security?

"None whatsoever, boss," he re-confirms what he already told me earlier. "The cameras they have are all busted up. For show. And no guards."

We've been doing this long enough. Still, my heart continues to thrum. This mission feels different–more critical, more personal. What if Jeremy is right and this is a trap? And yet, my gut tells me the words on the note left in my office aren’t some sick game.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

"Look." Flynn points toward the sky as I kill the call.

And sure enough, as we round a bend in the road, we catch sight of what looks like a cargo plane descending in the direction of the tiny airport. Its landing lights flicker like fallen stars, throwing eerie shadows across the dry Nevada landscape. It’s one of those private spots in the middle of nowhere surrounded by miles and miles of desert, sandy hills, and plants. Impossible to find online. Unless you look at the map closely enough, knowing what you’re after.

I glance at my watch. It’s fifteen to ten. Early. But my intuition says this is the right plane.

Jeremy slams his foot on the gas and our SUV leaps forward eagerly. Tires chew up gravel, spitting sand behind us in a wild cascade.

A fence limits the airport periphery, but thanks to Hector's early morning mischief, it isn't going to be much of an issue. An easy target—a tempered section of wire barrier—looms ahead. The SUV charges onward without hesitation, smashing through in an echoing baritone crash that scatters birds and other wildlife nesting nearby.

The vehicles spin and skid toward a single row of hangars.

From this point on, things happen fast.

Above our heads, the discordant rumble announces arrival—not ours. A plane soars overhead racing its shadow over ours as it angles toward the lone strip of asphalt dictating its descent.

The bird kisses the ground with a rugged rattle just as our vehicles fan out from behind the hangars. That’s their first clue we’re here and we’ve got them cornered.

The guys loitering near the runaway— maybe ten or fifteen of them—are too cocky to see it coming until they're stuck in our crosshairs.

My boots hit the hot, sun-drenched asphalt as I leap out of the SUV along with the rest of my crew.

My eyes are scanning for Tucci. Sure enough, he's exactly where I thought he'd be—skulking behind two towering figures as if they could shield him from what’s coming.

I stride toward him without hesitation, offering a devilish grin that reflects the madness in me. The madness Jacob created. The madness that never left. And it’s about to come out in a terrifying display of vengeance.

"Long time no see, huh?" I throw at Tucci, halting to a stop at a safe distance. Jeremy is by my side, armed with an AK. Flynn and Hector concentrate on the plane. The rest of my crew rounds up Tucci’s men into a line and has them kneeling. They seem clueless as to what’s going on, dropping to the ground without a fight. Cheap hired guns, judging by their faces. Cheap and probably not very reliable when it comes to life and death situations.

Tucci is staring at me from behind his useless human wall. Fucking excuse of muscle and meat. He knows he’s done for.

I throw a look at Jeremy; my silent command sends half our boys streaming toward Tucci in a human flurry. The guys guarding him offer no resistance.

"Seems like your money didn't buy you everything." My voice drips with ridicule as Ricky and Seven herd him into submission. He buckles; his face taut with pain that paints a grim satisfaction in the air.

"That’s where loyalty trumps," I grind out, advancing till my boot heel cuts into his wrist sprawled on the sizzling asphalt. "But hey, how would you know? You’ve been running dry on that front."

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