Chapter 5 - The San Francisco Arrival
The Gulfstream G650 rolled smoothly to a stop inside a private, heavily reinforced aircraft hangar leased by the Moretti syndicate’s West Coast operations. Outside the thick glass windows, three black SUVs stood parked in a rigid semicircle, their headlights cutting beams through the dim interior of the hangar.
Frederick stood up, adjusting his suit jacket, his tactical instincts instantly snapping back into place. He checked the clip of his concealed firearm.
"Stay here," Frederick instructed Elena, his voice dropping into its cold, commanding timbre. "Marco will escort you and Kylie through the rear exit into an armored transport. You'll be taken to a secure safehouse in Pacific Heights until I handle this."
"Handle what?" Elena asked, standing up as well, her protective instincts flaring up again. "Who is outside?"
"Business associates who don't understand the word 'no,'" Frederick said curtly, turning toward the cabin door.
"Frederick, wait." Elena stepped forward, touching his sleeve. The fabric of his suit was warm, but his muscles beneath were coiled like steel springs. "You can't just shoot your way out of every problem. If these people are your business partners, making more enemies in San Francisco isn't going to keep us safe."
Frederick looked down at her hand on his arm. For a man who lived in a world where touch usually meant betrayal or assassination, the simple, grounding contact of her fingers felt grounding.
"Some problems only understand the language they speak," Frederick said quietly. Then, pushing open the cabin door, he descended the metal stairs down onto the polished concrete floor of the hangar.
Marco was waiting at the foot of the stairs, flanked by four armed guards in dark tactical gear.
"Boss," Marco reported crisply, handing Frederick a secure dossier. "It's Victor Moretti's people. They intercepted our flight plan. They know the Chicago deal fell through, and they want to renegotiate the West Coast distribution rights at gunpoint. They've got twenty men outside."
Frederick flipped open the dossier, scanning the thermal drone images of the hangar exterior. Twenty men. Standard syndicate muscle. They thought they could pressure him while he was vulnerable, traveling with civilian baggage.
They didn't know that protecting Elena and Kylie had shifted something fundamental in Frederick’s tactical calculations. They weren't just "baggage" anymore. They were the first thing in five years that made him realize he actually had something worth fighting for.
"Tell them I'll come out alone," Frederick commanded.
"Boss—" Marco protested.
"Do it, Marco. And position our sniper units on the catwalks above. If any of Moretti's men twitch an inch out of line, turn the hangar into a shooting gallery."
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"Understood," Marco nodded, signaling the tactical team.
Inside the plane, Elena pressed her face against the cabin window, her heart pounding against her ribs as she watched Frederick walk out into the center of the vast, empty hangar, utterly alone, facing an army of armed enforcers whose shadows stretched long across the concrete.
