The heavy tires of the Gulfstream slammed onto the wet tarmac of Teterboro Airport at 2:15 PM, sending a spray of gray brackish water across the runway.
New Jersey was swept in a cold September downpour. Beyond the perimeter fence, the distant skyline of Manhattan hung like a jagged row of charcoal monoliths shrouded in low-hanging fog.
By the time the stairs swung down, a fleet of three matte-black Cadillac Escalades with smoked windows was idling on the apron, their exhaust fumes rising thick and heavy in the freezing rain. Eight private security personnel clad in tactical suits stood at attention, holding heavy umbrellas over the walkway.
I stepped out of the cabin first, my midnight-black wool trench coat belted tight around my waist, dark leather gloves fitted over my fingers. The
