The private jet was smaller than I expected. It was a Gulfstream, sleek and white, parked on a secluded tarmac away from the commercial terminals. The stairs were built into the door, folding down like a mechanical tongue. The air smelled of jet fuel and cold metal. Sarah walked up the stairs first, her hand resting near her hip where the weapon was concealed beneath her blazer. Marcus followed her, his hand on the small of my back. The touch was light, barely there, but I felt it through the fabric of my coat. It was a grounding pressure, a reminder that I was not alone.
I stepped into the cabin. The leather seats were cream-colored, stitched with precision. The windows were small ovals, framed in polished metal. The interior was quiet, insulated from the roar of the engines that hadn't
