BLOODLINE AT THIRTY THOUSAND FEET

The Boeing 737 descended through a blanket of snow, wheels slamming onto the frozen runway of Denver International Airport at 11:15 PM. Outside, a blizzard was howling, whipping powder across the tarmac and blinding the tower lights.

While passengers began standing up to retrieve their coats, my satellite phone buzzed in my inside pocket. I pulled it out and tapped the secure line.

“Speak,” I muttered.

“Boss,” came the gravelly voice of Frank Alvarez, my head of personal security and the only man in Denver whose loyalty I hadn't questioned in a decade. “Things are bad at Hangar Nine. Marco brought thirty men instead of the agreed four. Russo’s boys are backing him up with heavy artillery. They’re claiming you violated the territorial treaty by skimming from the rail yards. They’re not waiting for a conversation, Damon. It’s an execution squad.”

“Where is Dennis Vance?” I asked, standing in the aisle and blocking a businessman trying to push past row twenty-eight.

“Dennis is at the private executive gate, watching the tarmac shuttle vans. If you come out through the VIP lounge, you’re walking straight into a crossfire.”

“Change of plans, Frank,” I said, keeping my tone completely even. “Bring the armored Suburbans directly to the maintenance stairs of Gate B-44. Not the private terminal. The commercial ramp.”

Frank went dead silent for two full seconds. “Boss? Gate B-44 is commercial baggage. Federal territory.”

“Do it now. And Frank? Bring two pediatric emergency blankets, two pairs of noise-canceling headphones, and every shooter who took the blood oath with my father. We’re not negotiating tonight.”

I ended the call before he could question me.

I turned back to Cassandra. She had already dressed Luke in his oversized red puffer jacket. Violet was clinging to her mother’s neck, wide-eyed and shivering from the chill leaking through the airplane door.

“Hold on to me,” I told Cassandra.

“Damon—”

“Cassandra, look at me.” I grabbed her shoulders gently, forcing her panicked gaze to lock with mine. “I have killed men for looking at my business the wrong way. I have spent my life making sure the world feared the name Prescott. But I swear on my mother’s grave, nothing on this earth will touch a hair on these children. Trust me for twenty minutes.”

Her lips trembled, but she nodded.

I scooped Luke up in my left arm. He weighed almost nothing against my chest, his little hands immediately grabbing the lapel of my bespoke cashmere coat. With my right hand, I guided Cassandra through the galley door where I flashed my federal priority clearance badge to the startled flight attendant—a privilege bought through millions in airport infrastructure donations years prior.

Instead of taking the jet bridge into the crowded terminal, we descended the metal utility stairs directly into the howling teeth of the blizzard.

The cold hit us like a physical blow. Luke gasped, burying his face into my neck. The raw heat of his small breath against my skin sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins that no cartel war had ever triggered.

Through the whiteout of falling snow, three black Chevrolet Suburbans roared across the tarmac, tires screaming against the ice. They slid to a halt ten feet from the stairs, forming an impenetrable steel barricade between us and the open tarmac.

Doors flew open. Six men in heavy black tactical parkas stepped out, rifles raised low and ready.

Frank Alvarez stepped forward, lowering his scarf. His jaw dropped as his eyes shifted from my face to the boy clinging to my neck, and then to Cassandra and the little girl behind me.

“Mother of God,” Frank whispered, crossing himself. “Damon... are those...”

“Get them inside the middle truck,” I commanded, cutting him off before the wind could steal my voice. “Engage the titanium window plates. Frank, you ride shotgun in their vehicle. If anything with a pulse approaches that car without my verbal authorization, you turn the pavement red.”

“Understood, boss,” Frank said, his demeanor instantly hardening into pure iron. He offered a surprisingly gentle hand to Cassandra, guiding her into the reinforced interior of the Suburban.

As I set Luke onto the leather seat beside his mother, he looked up at me with those piercing green eyes. “Are we going to your house, angry man?”

A faint smirk touched my lips despite the freezing wind tearing at my face. “We’re going to my home, Luke. But first, your dad has to take out the trash.”

I slammed the heavy door, listening to the satisfying pneumatic seal lock into place.

Turning toward the lead Suburban, I racked the slide of the custom .45 caliber pistol drawn from my shoulder holster.