Chapter 11 - The Flight to Zurich
-11-
The digital clock on the sunroom wall ticked past 8:00 PM. The glowing flight-tracker on Marcus’s tablet displayed a small, blinking icon cutting a sharp line across the Atlantic Ocean, leaving the American eastern seaboard far behind. Ethan’s private Gulfstream G650 was cruising at 45,000 feet, eating up the miles toward Zurich at nearly six hundred miles per hour.
—We can't let him reach Swiss airspace, I said, standing up from the sofa with a sudden, decisive snap of energy. —If those offshore accounts are cleared and transferred into untraceable cryptocurrency wallets before the Swiss banking freeze takes effect, recovering the principal assets will take years of international litigation.
—I’ve already initiated contact with our legal liaisons in Bern, Marcus replied quickly, tapping away at his tablet. —The emergency injunctions are drafted, but Swiss federal banking laws require a physical signature from a recognized primary beneficiary or an authorized corporate officer to execute an immediate asset freeze on private numbered accounts. Since Ethan still holds nominal administrative rights until the midnight regulatory rollover, a digital submission will get buried in red tape for at least twenty-four hours.
—Then we don't submit it digitally, I said, turning to look at Marcus with absolute, unwavering resolve. —We deliver it in person.
Marcus stopped typing, his fingers freezing over the screen as he looked up at me in disbelief.
—Amelia... are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting? You want to charter a interceptor flight to Zurich tonight?
—Why not? I replied, a sharp, fearless smile touching my lips. —Cole Industries owns three long-range charter jets stationed at the municipal airfield, all registered under the parent holding company which, as of this afternoon, is entirely under my voting control. Ethan forgot to lock the hangar master codes before he left.
Clara stood up from the sofa, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and burgeoning excitement.
—Can I come? she asked, her voice steady and resolute for the first time since she arrived at the mansion. —That’s my family’s legacy he’s trying to bury in those Swiss accounts. If my father’s name is going to be cleared, I want to be there when the vault doors finally slam shut on him.
I looked at her for a long moment, seeing not the frightened waitress who had stepped through our front doors with a single suitcase just twenty-four hours ago, but the true heiress of Apex Logistics—a woman forged in the same fire of betrayal and survival as myself.
—Pack a heavier coat, Clara, I said, turning toward the hallway. —Switzerland in August is colder than you think. Marcus, call the airfield hangar. Tell them to prep the Falcon 8X for an immediate transatlantic departure. Flight plan filing priority one.
May you like
Marcus let out a short, breathless laugh—a sound that carried the giddy adrenaline of a man who realized he was living through the climax of a thriller he had only ever read about in classified files.
—Consider it done, Amelia. I’ll meet you at the private tarmac in forty minutes.
