Chapter 3 - The Wrong Airport
The aircraft landed at a private section of Allegheny County Airport forty minutes later.
Not Pittsburgh International.
Not a crowded terminal.
Not anywhere a family on a commercial flight was supposed to be.
Passengers murmured in confusion as the plane rolled toward a hangar surrounded by snow-covered service vehicles.
Roman watched the runway lights pass the window.
Norah whispered, “You were right.”
He did not enjoy hearing it.
The captain came over the speaker again.
“We have been instructed to hold here briefly while ground personnel inspect an equipment alert.”
Roman looked toward the cockpit door.
“Ground personnel,” he repeated.
The man across the aisle stood.
So did the man from the restroom.
Two more passengers rose from coach.
Roman counted four.
Norah saw his expression.
“What?”
“Four.”
Her eyes widened.
The first man stepped closer.
“Mr. DeLuca.”
Roman stayed seated.
“I don’t remember introducing myself.”
“You don’t need to.”
A flight attendant moved toward them.
“Sir, please return to your—”
The second man flashed a credential too quickly for Roman to read.
“Federal protective detail.”
Roman smiled faintly.
“No.”
The man’s hand moved toward his jacket.
Roman was faster.
He surged up, drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, and slammed him against the overhead compartment.
Passengers screamed.
The first man lunged.
Roman struck him with the metal buckle end of his belt.
Not enough to kill.
Enough to stop movement.
The other two men from coach froze when three actual air marshals came through the rear curtain with weapons drawn.
“Hands where I can see them!”
Chaos swallowed the cabin.
Babies cried.
Norah bent over the twins.
Roman raised both hands.
The fake agents did the same.
One tried to run.
He did not get far.
Within ten minutes, airport police surrounded the aircraft.
The four men were removed in handcuffs.
Roman was questioned separately.
His name complicated everything.
His reputation complicated more.
But the hidden prepaid phone, false credentials, and unauthorized diversion changed the mood quickly.
The pilot insisted he had received a legitimate maintenance instruction relayed through operations.
Someone had penetrated the airline’s dispatch system.
Someone with resources.
Someone who knew Roman’s travel problem before Roman did.
The FBI arrived before sunrise.
Norah refused to let the twins out of her sight.
Roman refused to leave Norah.
That created tension with Agent Elaine Mercer, who had spent five years trying to build a case against him.
“Mr. DeLuca,” she said, “you are not part of this interview.”
Roman sat in the corner.
“I disagree.”
“This is not your house.”
“No.”
He looked at Norah.
“But those are my children.”
Norah surprised everyone.
“He stays.”
Mercer looked at her.
“Mrs. DeLuca—”
“Ms. Carter.”
Roman’s expression tightened.
Norah used her maiden name now.
She noticed.
So did Mercer.
“Ms. Carter,” the agent corrected, “I need you to understand that Mr. DeLuca may have conflicts of interest.”
Norah laughed without humor.
“Agent, everyone in this room has conflicts of interest.”
Mercer sat back.
Norah told the story from the beginning.
The pregnancy test.
The anonymous photograph.
The threat.
Miriam Hale.
A safe house outside Albany.
Cash deliveries arranged through couriers.
Monthly phone calls.
Instructions that changed every few weeks.
Never use the same pediatrician twice.
Never register the twins under DeLuca.
Never contact Roman.
“If Miriam died ten months ago,” Mercer said, “who supported you after that?”
“I thought it was her.”
Roman asked, “Did anyone ever meet you in person?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Two weeks after I left.”
“Who?”
Norah closed her eyes.
“A priest.”
Roman leaned forward.
“Name.”
“Father Gabriel Russo.”
Roman stood.
Mercer watched him.
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He performed my father’s funeral.”
Norah looked at Roman.
“He said he was helping Miriam because she was afraid someone had found her.”
Roman’s phone had been returned after the airport cleared him.
He called Carlo.
“Find Father Russo.”
Carlo was silent.
Roman knew what silence meant.
“Say it.”
“Boss…”
“What?”
“Father Russo died six months ago.”
Norah covered her mouth.
Roman’s face became stone.
Mercer leaned closer.
“How?”
Carlo answered through speaker.
“Heart attack. At least officially.”
Roman ended the call.
The pattern was suddenly obvious.
Someone had used dead people.
Not random dead people.
People connected to Roman’s family.
People Norah would trust because Roman trusted them.
Mercer said, “Who benefits from isolating your ex-wife?”
Roman looked at her.
“Someone who wanted leverage without me knowing leverage existed.”
“And tonight?”
“They brought her into my path.”
“Why?”
Roman stared through the conference-room window at the snow.
“Because the hiding phase is over.”
Norah held Isabella tighter.
Mercer tapped her pen.
“Let’s talk about Miriam Hale.”
Roman’s jaw flexed.
“My father’s accountant.”
“What kind of accountant?”
“The kind who knew where every legal dollar was and enough about the illegal ones to stay careful.”
“Did she have enemies?”
“Everyone with a secret.”
Mercer looked at Norah.
“Did Miriam ever give you anything besides instructions?”
Norah froze.
Roman saw it.
“What?”
She reached into the diaper bag.
Beneath formula packets and extra clothes, she pulled out a children’s board book.
Goodnight Moon.
Roman stared.
Norah opened the back cover.
The cardboard had been cut and resealed.
Inside was a small brass key.
Mercer sat forward.
“What does it open?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“The priest.”
Roman picked up the key.
Stamped on one side were three numbers.
317.
He knew them.
His father had owned a private deposit room under an old bank building on LaSalle Street.
Vault 317.
It had been sealed after his death.
Roman looked at Norah.
“My father had a vault.”
Mercer asked, “What’s inside?”
Roman’s voice lowered.
“If I knew, I would have opened it years ago.”
Norah stared at the key.
“Then why give it to me?”
Roman’s phone rang.
Luca Marino.
The lieutenant who had been shot.
Roman answered.
“Luca?”
A weak voice came through.
“Boss.”
“You should be unconscious.”
“Probably.”
“Who shot you?”
Luca breathed painfully.
“That’s why I called.”
Roman waited.
“I saw his face.”
“Whose?”
“The man who ordered it.”
Luca coughed.
Then said a name that made Roman forget the room around him.
“Carlo.”
Norah looked at Roman.
Agent Mercer looked at Roman.
Roman’s face did not move.
Carlo Bianchi had stood beside him for fourteen years.
He had found the commercial flight.
He had known Roman would travel alone.
He had been the one receiving every update.
Roman ended the call.
Mercer asked, “Who is Carlo?”
Roman looked at the brass key in his hand.
“My best friend.”
Then his phone lit again.
A text from Carlo.
BOSS, DON’T OPEN VAULT 317.
Roman stared at it.
May you like
A second message arrived.
IF YOU DO, NORAH DIES FIRST.
