Chapter 5 - The Chase Over the AlpsWithin forty minutes, the private Gulfstream G650 bearing the Rossi crest taxied down the private runway of our Chicago estate, its twin jet engines screaming against the pouring rain as it prepared for an immediate transatlantic intercept.
In the cabin, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
Grace sat in the leather swivel chair near the forward bulkhead, wrapped in a heated blanket, her fingers frantically tapping away at the tactical laptop Prescott had provided. Across from her, Prescott was interfacing our onboard flight computer with Federal Aviation Administration transponder feeds and international air traffic control override codes.
I stood near the cockpit door, staring out the reinforced double-paned window at the gray, churning waters of Lake Michigan fading beneath us as we punched through the cloud layer at 41,000 feet.
“We have a positive radar lock on Mother’s charter,” Prescott called out, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Registration code N-884-X. They’re currently cruising at Mach 0.85 over the North Atlantic, maintaining an altitude of 43,000 feet, heading directly for a private airstrip near Sion, Switzerland.”
“Can we force them down?” I asked, walking over to the navigation console.
“Legally? No,” Prescott replied, glancing up at me. “Practically? Using the secondary transponder override codes stored in the family ledger you brought, I can transmit an emergency FAA grounding order routed through European air traffic control citing suspected contraband transport. They’ll be forced to touch down at the nearest international facility—Zurich-Kloten Airport.”
“Do it,” I commanded.
Prescott hit the enter key with a sharp clack. “Signal sent. They have twenty minutes to acknowledge and comply, or Swiss federal authorities will scramble interceptor jets to escort them down.”
Grace looked up from her laptop, her amber eyes burning with exhaustion and fierce determination. “And once they touch down in Zurich?”
“Once they touch down,” I said, resting my hand reassuringly on her shoulder, “my security detail will already be waiting on the tarmac. Nobody takes my son out of that plane.”
The next six hours passed in agonizing silence.
As our Gulfstream carved a jagged path through the stratosphere across the Atlantic, the digital map on the cabin display showed the two converging blips—our plane and Eleanor’s chartered jet—slowly narrowing the distance over European airspace.
At 4:00 a.m. local time, the pilot’s voice crackled over the cabin intercom:
“Mr. Rossi, we’ve received confirmation from Zurich-Kloten air traffic control. The target aircraft has acknowledged our grounding order and is currently executing its final descent toward Runway 28. We’ll be touching down twenty minutes behind them.”
My hand instinctively dropped to the grip of my Sig Sauer.
“Lock and load,” I murmured to Prescott.
Grace stood up, swaying slightly from weakness, but her jaw was set in stone. “I’m coming with you, Dante.”
“Grace, your body—you’re still recovering from the trauma of the delivery,” I protested gently.
“That is my son out there,” she whispered, her voice trembling with an intensity that brooked no argument. “If you think I’m staying behind in this cabin while you rescue my baby, you don't know me at all.”
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I looked into her eyes and saw the same unyielding fire that had made me fall in love with her years ago.
“All right,” I nodded, pulling a tactical Kevlar vest from the storage locker and helping her strap it securely over her coat. “Stay behind me every second. If anyone breathes in your direction, you put them down.”
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