34

The thunderous roar of rotor blades cut through the humid air as two Brazilian Federal Police helicopters descended onto a secure landing pad on the outskirts of Eduardo Gomes International Airport in Manaus. Fenton Hardy and Inspector Menendez stepped out the moment the doors slid open, followed closely by a team of armed federal agents.

They had wasted no time getting here. After confirming Reese's escape from the compound, they had moved swiftly, covering the distance in helicopters rather than boats or land vehicles to make up for lost time.

"We need to check every airstrip in the city," Fenton said as he adjusted his gear. "If Reese is planning to flee Brazil, he'll need a plane. The question is—which one?"

Menendez nodded in agreement. "Eduardo Gomes is the only facility in Manaus that can handle long-range private jets. If Reese left the compound in a hurry, he either came here, or he already had another plane waiting elsewhere and is traveling locally."

They had to start somewhere.

The team moved quickly toward the private aviation terminal, bypassing security with their federal authority.

Inside the control office, Menendez approached the duty officer stationed at the private aircraft section. He flashed his badge.

"We need a full manifest of all private flights departing in the last several hours," Menendez ordered.

The officer hesitated. "We'd need authorization from the—"

Menendez cut him off. "We don't have time for bureaucracy. Give me the records."

Under the pressure of the armed federal agents, the officer complied, pulling up a list of recent departures.

Fenton scanned the list, his eyes immediately locking onto a specific entry.

"Flight plan to Ontario, Canada," he muttered. "Aircraft model—Gulfstream G650."

That was Chet's jet.

"That's them," Menendez said.

"We need confirmation," Fenton said. "We need to see the security footage."

Confirming Their Suspicions

It took several minutes, but soon, a grainy black-and-white surveillance video appeared on a nearby screen, showing the private tarmac.

Fenton felt his breath catch as the footage played.

Reese was right there, leading the group of prisoners toward the plane.

"There," he pointed. "Reese. Lila. Frank, Joe, Chet, Callie, Maddie, and Jaime. They're all there."

Menendez leaned closer. "They weren't just escaping. They were taking their captives with them."

But something else caught Fenton's attention.

His stomach tightened as he zoomed in on Maddie. "Freeze that frame!" He commanded.

The outline of a vest—bulky, unnatural—strapped to her torso.

Menendez swore under his breath. "Is that what I think it is?"

Fenton felt a chill run through him.

"That's an explosive vest," he muttered. "They're using the kid as a hostage."

A tense silence settled in the room.

"They knew we were pursuing," Menendez said grimly. "And they wanted leverage."

Fenton clenched his fists. Maddie—Chet's 14-year-old daughter—was strapped with explosives, completely under Reese's control.

"We need to establish radio communication with that aircraft," Fenton said.

Menendez immediately turned to the air traffic control tower.

The controller hesitated. "They filed an international flight plan. If they don't answer, we can't—"

"You will try," Menendez snapped.

The controller nodded, adjusting his headset.

"Sierra 23 Heavy, this is Manaus Air Traffic Control. Do you copy?"

Silence.

The controller repeated the message. Again, no response.

Fenton clenched his fists.

"They're ignoring us," Menendez muttered.

"Or they disabled their radio," Fenton added grimly.

"If they filed for Ontario, that means they'll have to pass through U.S. or Canadian airspace," Menendez said. "That gives us time to coordinate with Canadian and North American authorities."

Fenton stared at the live tracking system on the screen.

"They're currently traveling northwest over Venezuela," the controller reported. "Assuming they stick to their flight plan, they'll cross into U.S. airspace over the Gulf of Mexico within the next few hours or so."

Menendez turned to Fenton. "What's the best move?"

Fenton thought quickly. "We alert Canadian air traffic and coordinate with U.S. authorities. If we can't force them down, we at least make sure they're met with force the moment they land."

"Do we scramble fighter jets?" Menendez asked.

Fenton hesitated. "That might be too risky. Reese is unpredictable. If he thinks he's cornered, he could do something drastic. Especially with Maddie wearing that vest."

Menendez nodded. "So, what's our play?"

Fenton pulled out his cell phone and began dialing. "I know people. People who can track them, communicate with them, and—if necessary—shut them down before they disappear for good."

The hum of the Gulfstream G650's engines reverberated through the cabin as it soared high above the Venezuelan coastline. Inside, an eerie silence loomed despite the luxurious surroundings. Reese sat comfortably in one of the plush leather seats, but his demeanor was anything but relaxed. His fingers drummed against the armrest, his eyes darting toward the cockpit with increasing agitation.

Then, the radio crackled.

"Sierra 23 Heavy, this is Manaus Air Traffic Control. You are ordered to respond immediately."

Frank and Joe exchanged uneasy glances from the cockpit, but they kept their hands steady on the controls.

"Sierra 23 Heavy, you are in violation of Brazilian airspace. Respond now or risk immediate intervention."

Joe swallowed hard, hesitating only a moment before flicking off the volume. The message still scrolled on their radar screen—a written demand for immediate response. Joe looked to his brother. Both knew they were technically now in Venezuelan air space. The fact that Brazile ATC was contacting them with such verbiage was a clear indication that Fenton Hardy had reached Brazilian aviation authorities.

From the main cabin, Reese's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"What the hell was that?"

Frank turned back briefly. "They're ordering us to return to Manaus."

"Ignore it," Reese said flatly.

Joe clenched his jaw. "They're not going to stop, Reese. The Brazilian authorities don't just let planes vanish from their airspace. They'll scramble jets if they think we're a threat." Hoping to extend the threat.

Reese didn't seem fazed. "Let them. We're not even in their airspace any longer." Joe rolled his eyes.

A few seconds later, the radio crackled again.

"Sierra 23 Heavy, respond immediately or we will classify you as a rogue aircraft."

Reese stood abruptly, marching toward the cockpit. "Turn it off."

Frank took a deep breath. "Reese, you don't get it. They're escalating this. If we don't respond, they could send interceptors."

Reese's eyes darkened, his patience eroding. "Shut. It. Off."

Joe exhaled, tension clear in his posture, but he complied—switching off the transponder. The screen went dark, and the aircraft was now effectively invisible to civil air traffic control. Though the Hardys knew their location could still be tracked.

Reese leaned against the cockpit door, his presence towering over them.

"Our destination is Samana Cays." His voice was eerily casual. "A beautiful little place in the southern Bahamas. Uninhabited, remote, the perfect place for us to take our leave and get lost."

Frank frowned. "Samana Cays?" He searched his memory. "That's barely a dot on the map. Are you telling me there's an actual runway there?"

Reese smirked. "There's a private airstrip. Not many people know about it. But I do."

Joe tightened his grip on the controls. "Even if that's true, that's only a couple hundred miles from here. Why the secrecy?"

Reese's smile remained, but his eyes darkened. "That's not your problem, kid. Your problem is keeping us in the air and out of trouble."

Frank tried again, his voice measured but urgent. "Reese, we need to talk about approach and airstrip length."

"In due time," Reese said. "For now, Drop to 100 feet altitude."

Both brothers froze.

"What?!" Joe's voice rose sharply.

Reese sighed as if annoyed. "I said, fly at 100 feet to avoid radar detection."

Joe scoffed. "You're kidding, right?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Reese's tone was deadly.

Frank ran a hand down his face. "Reese, that's not how radar avoidance works. You're watching too many damn movies. Flying that low doesn't make us invisible to modern radar."

Joe turned slightly, adding, "Even if we weren't trackable—which we still are—it's insanely dangerous. At that height, a strong gust, turbulence, or an unseen obstacle could send us into the ocean."

Reese's expression darkened further. "I don't like being lied to, boys. I know at an altitude of 100 feet that we can avoid or severely impair the ability to be tracked."

Joe's patience was thin. "It's not a lie, Reese. Flying low doesn't work like it used to. Ground-based radar, satellite tracking, infrared detection—you think authorities don't have ways to see us? You want us to fly blind at 100 feet over open ocean for hours? You'll get us all killed!"

Reese's face hardened. "I don't care what you believe. Drop altitude. Now."

Joe shot Frank a panicked look. "This is nuts."

Lila strolled into the cockpit area, watching the exchange with mild amusement. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You heard the man, boys."

Frank hesitated. "Reese, listen to reason—"

Reese drew his gun.

The cold steel pressed against the back of Frank's seat.

"Reason," Reese murmured, "is for men who have choices. You don't."

Frank's fingers clenched around the controls.

Joe gritted his teeth. "This is suicide."

Reese's finger hovered near the trigger. "You like choices? Here's yours." He gestured toward the cabin. "Comply, or I start shooting people until someone else decides they want to fly this damn plane."

Frank exhaled sharply and nodded. Slowly, he adjusted the controls. The aircraft dipped lower.

Joe's stomach turned. Every instinct screamed at him that this was a bad idea.

The altitude meter began to drop.

5,000 feet.
2,500 feet.
1,000 feet.

Callie and Chet noticed immediately. "Why are we dropping?" Chet demanded.

Maddie, buzzed on alcohol, barely registered the shift. "Feels like a roller coaster," she muttered, taking another sip.

"Just relax, dear," Reese called back. "We're taking the scenic route."

500 feet.
300 feet.
200 feet.

Callie's face went pale. "Oh my god—you're not actually doing this?!"

Chet clutched his armrests. "Are you insane?!"

Joe's knuckles were white on the controls. "Reese, we're at 200 feet! You want 100?! There's barely any margin for error!"

Reese tilted his head. "Then don't make an error."

Joe's breath came fast. He exchanged one last frantic glance with Frank, then—

100 feet.

The ocean rushed beneath them like an endless blue abyss.

The aircraft shuddered under the strain of holding such an unsafe altitude.

Maddie, suddenly sobered, gripped her seat. "This is making me nauseous."

"You're all nauseating," Lila quipped from her seat.

Callie turned to Reese, desperation in her voice. "You're risking all of us!"

Reese merely smirked. "And yet, here we are."

For ten excruciating minutes, the plane bucked and shuddered, barely skimming above the surface of the Atlantic. Every gust of wind, every adjustment, every second felt like they were teetering on the brink of disaster.

Joe's voice was tight. "If we hit an air pocket—if we get one wrong gust—we're dead."

Reese stretched in his chair, utterly unbothered. "Well then, I suggest you don't screw up."

The captives were terrified. Even Lila began shifting uncomfortably.

But Reese?

He laughed softly to himself, enjoying every second.

For him, this was a game.

A game only he knew the rules to.

Fenton Hardy leaned forward in his chair inside the air traffic control center in Manaus, his sharp eyes fixed on the radar screen. Around him, Brazilian federal officers and aviation officials worked tirelessly, watching the blip of Chet Morton's Gulfstream G650 flicker in and out of detection.

"What's going on?" Fenton asked, his voice steady but filled with growing concern. "Why do we keep losing them?"

One of the aviation officers, a middle-aged man with silvered hair and a lined face, turned toward him, his expression serious. "The plane is flying at an exceedingly low altitude over the Atlantic."

Fenton frowned. "How low are we talking?"

The officer's jaw tightened. "Under 200 feet. Possibly lower."

Fenton's brows knitted together. "That's insane. No pilot would willingly fly that low over open water unless—"

"—unless they were trying to avoid radar detection," Menendez finished grimly from Fenton's side.

A younger officer wearing a headset nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Even though they turned off the transponder, we can still track them. But our systems still are intermittently picking them up due to altitude. At that altitude, they keep disappearing from our radar scans because of the curvature of the earth and interference from ocean surface reflection."

Fenton exhaled, grinding his teeth. "Which means they know we're watching and are doing everything they can to slip away."

One of the federal police agents, a woman with dark hair pulled into a tight bun, stepped forward. "Sir, we have another issue."

Fenton turned to her. "What is it?"

She motioned toward the screen, where the blip flickered again, before disappearing for thirty long seconds. When it reappeared, it was further north than before.

"The aircraft is now approaching the Bermuda Triangle."

Silence settled over the room.

Fenton blinked. "The what?"

One of the aviation controllers, a man in his fifties, let out a slow breath. "The Bermuda Triangle. A sector of the ocean infamous for unexplained disappearances of aircraft and ships."

Fenton rubbed his chin. "You're seriously telling me that's a real thing?"

The officer hesitated before responding. "Many strange things have happened there. Some say it's just superstition, but documented cases show that planes, ships—even entire crews—have vanished without a trace."

Fenton exchanged a glance with Menendez, who was equally skeptical. "So, what are you saying?" Fenton pressed.

The officer gestured toward the screen. "We can't ignore history. Numerous aircraft flying through that region have reported malfunctions—navigation systems failing, compasses spinning wildly, pilots becoming disoriented. Some of them have never been seen again."

Fenton exhaled sharply. "I don't buy into ghost stories. But… if we know that's where they're headed, we should still be able to track them, right?"

The aviation official shifted uncomfortably. "In theory, yes. But this is one of the most unpredictable areas of the Atlantic. Planes have disappeared without a single distress call. Even modern aircraft have experienced unexplainable disruptions."

Fenton crossed his arms. "You're telling me that in 2025, with all our advanced technology, we might actually lose them just because they're flying through this patch of ocean?"

The officer met his gaze seriously. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."

A heavy silence filled the room as everyone processed the implications.

Menendez stepped forward. "Let's assume Reese is using this as an opportunity to make a clean getaway. What options do we have?"

The federal aviation officer sighed. "The moment they left Brazilian airspace, our jurisdiction became complicated. Officially, they are now in international airspace. That means Brazil can't just send fighter jets to force them down."

Fenton's patience was thinning. "But you could alert the United States or other authorities, right?"

The officer nodded. "Yes, but we don't know exactly where they'll land yet. If we had confirmation of their destination, the U.S. or Bahamian authorities could prepare an intercept."

Another officer added, "But there's another problem. If the plane truly disappears from radar in the Bermuda Triangle, it may not matter who we alert—we might never find them."

Fenton's stomach tightened.

"We keep tracking," he ordered. "No matter what."

The officers and federal police nodded grimly, refocusing on the screens.

For now, the only thing they could do…

Was watch and wait.

Fenton Hardy paced behind the cluster of aviation officials and federal police officers, his sharp mind racing as he absorbed the situation. The plane was still detectable—barely—but that was enough to keep hope alive. He refused to believe that Reese had pulled off a true vanishing act.

His fingers tightened into a fist. The Bermuda Triangle.

Sure, he had heard the stories—ships disappearing without distress calls, pilots flying into clear skies only to never be heard from again, entire crews vanishing without a trace. But Fenton had always dismissed those tales as fabricated myths, exaggerated by those looking for supernatural explanations to real-world problems.

Yet now, staring at the radar, watching Chet's Gulfstream flicker in and out of detection, he couldn't deny that something strange was happening.

But Reese wasn't a ghost.
Reese was a man. A criminal. A man who had planned every step of this escape meticulously. And if Reese had a plan, that meant there had to be a logical destination. Unfortunately, even the logical thinkers also sometimes had a completely illogical side. The idea that they were flying at well under 200 feet was incredibly unsafe and boarding on insane to anyone who would dictate flying at such an altitude.

Fenton turned to the aviation officers, his voice steady but urgent. "Look, I don't believe in legends, curses, or whatever else is tied to this place. What I do believe in is logic. And logically speaking, Reese isn't flying to Ontario."

One of the officers, a woman with short-cropped dark hair, nodded slowly. "I was thinking the same thing. Ontario being his destination never made sense."

Menendez crossed his arms. "So, where are they actually going?"

Fenton's gaze remained locked on the screen, his mind piecing the puzzle together. "If I were a fugitive, I wouldn't file a real flight plan. He picked Ontario because it's believable. But that's not where they're actually landing. That means there has to be another place—somewhere remote, somewhere private, where they can set down without drawing attention."

The lead aviation officer, an older man with weathered skin and a calm demeanor, tapped a few keys on his console. "That narrows it down. We're talking about the southern Bahamas, somewhere within a few hundred miles. But there aren't many known airstrips that could accommodate a Gulfstream G650 without attracting attention."

Fenton nodded. "Could there be any private or lesser-known runways? Something not officially charted? Someplace Reese could use without setting off any alarms?"

The officer exhaled. "There are a few. Let me cross-check."

A tense silence followed.

Fenton's eyes never left the screen, watching the blip of the aircraft as it flickered—one moment there, the next gone. The plane was still visible, still real.

He refused to accept that superstition could take it from him.

The Search for a Hidden Airstrip

After several moments, the aviation officer's console beeped. He straightened up, adjusting his glasses as a new screen appeared. "Alright," he said. "There are several airstrips in that region, but only one that truly fits Reese's needs—Samana Cays."

Fenton's brows furrowed. "Samana Cays? I thought that place was uninhabited."

The officer nodded grimly. "It is. No official airport, no permanent settlements—just a long, forgotten airstrip that was once used decades ago for emergency landings. Only a handful of people even know it's there. But if Reese does, it's the perfect place to land unnoticed."

Menendez leaned in. "Are you saying that's where he's headed?"

The officer shrugged. "It's not a certainty, but it's the most viable option if he were indeed looking for an unassuming and unmonitored place to land and perhaps switch to other mode of transport like boat."

Fenton's mind sharpened. If they could verify that was where Reese was going, they could move to intercept him.

"What's the range of our surveillance?" he asked.

One of the younger controllers hesitated. "Given how low they're flying, we might lose them before they reach the airstrip—if that's even where they're going."

Fenton ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Then we need to move fast."

The radar screen flickered again. The room tensed. The blip was there—then gone again.

Fenton's stomach tightened. "Are we losing them?"

The aviation officer grimaced. "It's possible. We're dealing with erratic conditions—if they drop any lower, we won't be able to track them at all. But if they drop any lower they will be critically low and unlikely to fly. They will crack up."

Menendez muttered a curse under his breath. "So, what you're saying is… if they go any lower, they could vanish completely?"

Another officer shifted uneasily. "I hate to say this, but… history has proven that planes flying through the Bermuda Triangle have done exactly that."

Fenton scowled. "You can't seriously expect me to believe that Reese is about to disappear into thin air."

The officer shrugged. "All I know is what history tells us."

Fenton rubbed his temples. He didn't have time for fairy tales or conspiracy theories. All that mattered was catching up to that plane.

He turned to the aviation team. "Keep monitoring them for as long as you can. If we lose them completely—" he paused, inhaling deeply, "—we'll find another way to track them down."

The officers nodded in agreement, but an unspoken tension hung in the air.

Everyone knew the history of this region.

Everyone knew what had happened to other pilots, other ships, other crews.

Now, the only question was…

Would Reese's plane make it through?