Chapter 6 - The quiet tarmac
The inside of the vault was not filled with gold bars, offshore bonds, or priceless art. It was a brightly lit, self-sustaining bunker. White walls, medical monitors, and a low hum of heavy ventilation filled the space. In the center of the room was a large glass enclosure, built like a high-tech medical quarantine room.
Vivienne stepped slowly into the room, her crimson gown brushing against the sterile floor. She looked through the thick glass and gasped.
Sitting on a simple white chair inside the enclosure was a man in his late sixties. He had thinning silver hair, fair skin, and wore a simple grey tracksuit. He was casually reading a book. When he heard them enter, he looked up.
"Dad?" Vivienne whispered, her voice breaking completely.
The man dropped his book. He stood up, walking slowly toward the glass. He placed his hand against the barrier, his eyes locked on Vivienne. "Vivy? My god, look at you. You're beautiful."
"But... you died," Vivienne sobbed, stepping closer to the glass, terrified to touch it. "Twenty years ago. The plane crash over the Atlantic. We buried an empty casket."
"Your grandmother arranged the crash," Sylvester said, standing right behind Vivienne. His voice was low, carrying the weight of a long, brutal history. "She needed your father out of the way so she could seize total control of the Cross empire. But she couldn't bring herself to actually kill her own son. So, she locked him down here. A ghost in a gilded cage."
"Why didn't you try to escape?" Vivienne cried, looking at her father. "Why didn't you come find me?"
The older man looked down, a deep shame washing over his face. "Because I made a deal, Vivy. If I stayed in this room, quietly, she promised she wouldn't hurt you. She promised you would live a life of luxury and safety. If I stepped one foot outside this vault, the proxy had orders to kill you."
Vivienne turned around to look at Julian, the proxy, who was standing watch by the door. Julian looked away, unable to meet her gaze.
"She used my life as a hostage to keep you in a box," Vivienne realized, the anger completely replacing her sorrow.
"We need to move," Sylvester interrupted, checking his heavy watch. "Eleanor wasn't bluffing about the scorched earth protocol. If we stay here, we'll be surrounded in ten minutes."
Sylvester walked to the control panel next to the glass enclosure and punched in a heavy override code. The thick glass doors hissed and slid open. Vivienne rushed forward, throwing her arms around the father she hadn't seen in two decades. They held each other tightly, the bright medical lights casting long shadows behind them.
"We are going to the private airfield," Sylvester commanded. "Julian, secure the perimeter. We leave in two minutes."
Twenty minutes later, a convoy of black SUVs sped onto the brightly lit tarmac of a private, isolated airstrip. A massive, sleek black jet was waiting, its engines already whining with power.
They piled out of the vehicles. The cool night wind whipped Vivienne’s hair around her face. For the first time in her life, she wasn't worried about her appearance or her social standing. She was a woman on the run.
As they walked rapidly toward the boarding stairs, a massive spotlight suddenly clicked on from the far end of the runway, blinding them with bright, intense light. The screeching of tires echoed across the concrete as four heavily armored mercenary trucks slammed on their brakes, cutting off the jet's path.
Dozens of armed men poured out of the trucks, their weapons raised.
"Hold your fire!" a sharp, aristocratic voice echoed from a megaphone.
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Stepping out of the lead truck, surrounded by elite guards, was Eleanor Cross. She wore a tailored white coat, her silver hair perfectly styled, her posture as rigid and commanding as a general.
"I told you, Sylvester," Eleanor called out across the bright tarmac. "Nobody walks away with my property."
