Chapter 6 - The Tarmac Interception
The morning air at the private aviation center in Chattanooga was biting cold, whipped into a frenzy by the propellers of a sleek white Gulfstream G650 sitting on the tarmac.
My private helicopter touched down on the grass beside the runway before the pilot had even fully cut the engine. I threw open the cabin door and hit the ground running, my leather jacket flapping in the backwash of the jet engines.
Two local sheriff’s deputies—pre-notified by Harrison with an emergency judicial order—were already stationed at the base of the private jet’s boarding stairs, blocking the way.
Standing at the top of the stairs, arguing furiously with the deputies, was Julian Thorne.
He was wearing an expensive Italian wool overcoat, his briefcase clutched tightly to his chest, his face red with panic.
"This is an outrage!" Julian shouted down at the deputies. "We have a valid international transit manifest! You have no right to—"
"Julian!" I roared, sprinting across the tarmac.
Julian spun around, his eyes widening in sheer terror as he saw me charging toward the stairs. He instinctively took a step back toward the cabin door, but one of the deputies placed a firm hand on his shoulder, blocking his retreat.
"Rowan..." Julian stammered, forcing a shaky, corporate smile. "B-man... what is this about? There’s been a terrible misunderstanding—"
I didn't answer. I flew up the metal stairs, shoved past him with enough force to send him stumbling against the aircraft hull, and threw open the cabin door.
Inside the luxurious leather-lined cabin, an older woman wearing nursing scrubs sat frozen in a plush armchair. Cradled securely in her arms was a tiny, bundle of pink knit fabric.
My breath hitched.
I stepped inside the cabin, my knees suddenly feeling weak. The nurse looked up at me, terrified, clutching the baby closer to her chest.
"Give her to me," I whispered, holding out my shaking hands.
"Sir, I—I have orders from Miss Whitmore to transport this child—"
"I am her father," I said, my voice dropping into a terrifying, guttural command. "Give me my daughter now, or I will have you arrested as an accessory to international child trafficking."
The nurse swallowed hard, recognizing the absolute, unyielding fury in my eyes. Slowly, carefully, she extended the bundle toward me.
When my arms wrapped around the tiny, fragile body, time completely stopped.
She smelled like baby powder and warm milk. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic breath. Beneath a little pink knit cap, a tuft of soft blond hair peeked out—the exact same hair every Bellamy man had inherited for generations.
"Daddy's here," I choked out, burying my face against her tiny shoulder as hot tears broke free and spilled down my cheeks. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're going home."
I turned around, carrying my daughter out of the jet cabin and down the metal stairs into the crisp morning air.
Marcus was waiting at the bottom of the steps, holding open the door of our waiting vehicle. Julian was already handcuffed and being read his Miranda rights by the county deputies against the hood of a cruiser.
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"Got her?" Marcus asked, his voice thick with emotion as he caught sight of the baby in my arms.
"Yeah," I whispered, gently shielding her face from the wind. "We got her."
