Six Feet Above Truth

Rain lashed against the corrugated metal walls of Hangar 4 at Crestview Airfield.

A sleek, twin-engine private jet sat on the polished concrete floor, its turbines whining as they warmed up for takeoff.

Arthur Vance threw two heavy leather duffel bags into the passenger luggage compartment, his face pale, sweat soaking through his expensive collar.

“Faster!” Arthur screamed at the pilot, who was running through pre-flight checklists near the cockpit ladder. “We need to be in the air five minutes ago!”

“Tower hasn't cleared us for departure, Mr. Vance!” the pilot shouted back over the roar of the engines. “There’s a severe weather hold!”

“I don't care about the weather!” Arthur shouted, pulling a heavy silver revolver from his briefcase. “Clear the runway yourself or I’ll fly the damn plane myself!”

“You won't be flying anywhere, Arthur.”

The deep, authoritative voice cut through the whine of the jet engines.

Arthur spun around, his revolver raised.

At the main sliding entrance of the hangar stood Detective Miller, flanked by four state troopers with tactical rifles raised and locked on Arthur’s chest.

Beside Miller, wrapped in a heavy coat, stood Claire Parker.

Arthur’s jaw dropped. The gun in his hand trembled violently. “Claire… you… how are you walking?”

“I’m walking because my son is ten times the man you will ever be,” Claire said, her voice like cold, carved marble as she stepped into the hangar. “Fifty million dollars, Arthur? You sold your own sister for a bank account?”

“You don't understand!” Arthur stammered, tears of pathetic self-pity mixing with his sweat. “The company was going under! The investors were going to ruin me! It was just money, Claire! You weren't supposed to feel anything! Evans promised me it would be painless!”

“Painless?” Claire spat, taking a step toward her brother, ignoring the gun pointed in her direction. “I was awake, Arthur! I was trapped in the dark while you stood outside and pretended to cry for me!”

“Don't come any closer!” Arthur shrieked, cocking the hammer of the revolver. “I’ll shoot! I swear to God I’ll shoot!”

*SNAP.*

A sharp, metallic click echoed from the shadows behind the jet’s landing gear.

Arthur swung his head toward the sound.

Ethan stepped out from behind a stacks of fuel drums, holding a high-powered industrial emergency flare gun he had pulled from the hangar’s safety station.

“Drop the gun, Uncle Arthur,” Ethan said quietly, his young eyes cold and completely fearless. “Or I shoot this flare right into your jet’s open fuel valve.”

Arthur looked from Ethan’s ice-cold gaze to the open fuel port six inches from the flare gun’s tip. A single spark would detonate the entire hangar into a fireball.