Chapter 5 - The Flight to Montauk
The private Sikorsky helicopter cut through the predawn darkness, its twin turbine engines roaring above the churning black waters of the Atlantic. Below them, the jagged coastline of Montauk stretched out like a sleeping beast against the gray horizon.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was dense with tension.
Lily and Rose were fast asleep on a customized leather bench seat, wrapped in heavy wool blankets with noise-canceling headphones over their small ears. Veronica sat beside them, keeping a watchful eye on their vitals, her thumb rhythmically stroking the back of Lily’s hand to ensure they didn't wake up in a panic.
Across from them sat Rory Starks.
He hadn't slept a wink. His massive frame occupied half the leather bench, his fingers absently turning the military-grade tracking chip he had extracted from the teddy bear. The blue light of the tablet screen illuminated his rugged, scarred face, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes.
“They’re sleeping without screaming for the first time in eight weeks,” Veronica said softly, breaking the steady hum of the rotor blades.
Rory looked up from the tablet, his gaze softening as he glanced at his daughters. “I spent eight weeks paying the best doctors in the country to tell me my children were crazy,” he said, his voice low and self-deprecating. “And it took a maid with a pair of pink safety scissors to show me the truth.”
“Doctors look for disease in the mind because they don't want to admit when monsters are living in the house,” Veronica replied simply.
Rory gave a short, dry nod. He tapped the screen of the tablet, bringing up a secure satellite map of a sprawling, isolated glass-and-steel estate perched high on the cliffs of Montauk.
“Susan’s cliffside retreat,” Rory said, his tone turning ice-cold. “She thinks she’s untouchable because she hides behind family name and high-society charity galas. Marcus’s phone records routed straight to her IP address an hour ago. She’s been sitting out here watching the live feed of my nursery on her private monitor while sipping champagne.”
Veronica felt a chill crawl down her spine. “She’s their aunt.”
“In name only,” Rory snarled, his knuckles whitening around the plastic casing of the bug. “She wanted control of the family shipping routes. When our father died, he split the syndicate between us—ports to me, international shell assets to her. But my ports generate ten times the revenue. She wanted it all back, and she figured if she drove my girls insane, I’d abdicate my position to take them abroad for treatment.”
“It’s a sick plan,” Veronica said, her eyes flashing with anger.
“It ends today,” Rory said, standing up as the helicopter began its rapid descent toward the clifftop helipad.
The aircraft touched down with a heavy thud against the concrete slab, the rotor wash kicking up a mini-hurricane of salt spray and loose gravel. The heavy cabin door slid open, letting in the freezing, biting wind of the Atlantic dawn.
Rory turned to Veronica. “Stay here with the girls. Lock the doors from the inside. If I’m not back in thirty minutes...” He paused, unbuttoning his holster to check his sidearm. “Actually, take this spare Walther PPK. If anyone tries to board this chopper, empty the clip.”
He pressed the heavy steel weapon into her hand before Veronica could protest, then jumped down onto the helipad, his coat billowing behind him like the wings of a dark angel.
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Veronica watched him disappear toward the towering glass front doors of Susan’s cliffside mansion. She checked the safety on the pistol, clicked it off, and pulled the girls a little closer into the center of the cabin.
The storm was coming, and she intended to make sure they stayed safe through every single drop of rain.
