Chapter 10 - The Zurich Flight
The private aviation terminal at Boeing Field was quiet, bathed in the sterile, fluorescent white light of pre-dawn security checks.
Grace walked beside me through the automated sliding doors, her briefcase clutched tightly in her hand, her trench coat swirling around her ankles. We didn't look like two women chasing a fugitive international wire fraudster across the globe; we looked like corporate executives heading out on an early Monday morning merger.
"The international arrest warrant has been filed with Interpol," Grace murmured, keeping her voice low as we approached the private charter desk. "If Julian steps foot in any signatory nation, Swiss authorities will pick him up before he even clears baggage claim."
"Interpol takes time, Grace," I said, pulling my passport from my coat pocket and laying it flat on the granite counter. "And Julian knows how to move money faster than paperwork can travel."
The airline attendant behind the desk looked up, her professional smile slipping slightly as she scanned our credentials. "Good morning, Mrs. Hale. How can I help you today?"
"Two seats on the next available commercial flight to Zurich," I said smoothly, my voice leaving no room for argument. "First class. Immediate boarding."
The attendant’s fingers flew across her keyboard, her eyebrows furrowing as the system processed our request. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but our direct flights to Zurich are fully booked until tomorrow afternoon. We can route you through Frankfurt—"
Before she could finish, a sharp, familiar voice echoed from behind us in the terminal lobby.
"Don't bother booking Frankfurt, sis. You'll never catch up."
I froze.
Grace spun around instantly, her hand dropping toward her briefcase.
Standing twenty feet away, leaning casually against a polished marble pillar with an expensive leather duffel bag slung over his shoulder, was Julian. He looked immaculate in a custom charcoal suit, his hair neatly styled, his expression wearing that familiar, condescending smirk he used to wear when we were kids playing games we both knew he had rigged from the start.
"Julian," I said quietly, turning around to face my brother.
Julian stepped forward, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. "You really should have stayed in the courtroom, Evelyn. You had Victor cornered. You had the local labor board eating out of your hand. Why did you have to keep digging?"
"Because you left your fingerprints on the server logs, Julian," I walked toward him, my boots clicking rhythmically against the polished floor. "Did you really think I wouldn't check the backend metadata of the corporate holding accounts?"
Julian chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound that echoed off the high glass ceilings of the terminal. "Evelyn, please. You spent twenty years covered in flour and grease, hauling boxes for a man who wouldn't even put your name on the door. What makes you think you can compete with international asset managers?"
"I don't need to compete with them," I stopped five feet away from him, looking directly into the eyes of the brother I had spent my life protecting. "I just need to cancel the security keys."
Julian’s smirk vanished. His eyes widened slightly. "What did you say?"
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my encrypted admin tablet, and tapped the screen twice.
Across the terminal, the massive digital flight board flickered, cutting out the Zurich departure schedule and replacing it with a single, glowing red warning: Account frozen under federal court order. All outgoing international wire transfers permanently suspended.
Julian’s hand flew to his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen was flashing a relentless cascade of red error notifications as every single shell company account in Zurich, the Caymans, and Delaware locked simultaneously.
"You didn't..." Julian stammered, his face turning pale as the reality of what I had done crashed down around him. "You locked the primary trust? That money belongs to the syndicate! If they don't get the transfer by noon, they're going to—"
Before Julian could finish his sentence, the glass sliding doors behind him slid open.
Three men in dark, nondescript suits stepped out of the freezing Seattle rain, walking with a cold, deliberate purpose straight toward my brother.
Julian spun around, his face draining of all color as he recognized the men approaching him. He took two desperate steps backward, looking frantically toward the security gates, but the terminal doors behind us had already locked automatically under the federal asset freeze protocol.
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I stood beside him, watching as the men in dark suits closed the distance, their hands resting ominously inside their heavy coats.
"Have a nice flight, Julian," I whispered softly.
