“They’re moving the flight up,” Maren gasped, pulling up the FAA tracker on her laptop. “They’ve requested immediate taxi to Runway 3.”
I slammed the car into gear, the tires smoking on the wet concrete. “They aren’t taking off tonight.”
The drive to the private airfield was a blur of adrenaline and flashing streetlights. Maren was on the phone with Evelyn, coordinating the police response, but we both knew the cops were too far away. Money buys time, and Grant Whitmore had bought just enough to get his private jet off American soil.
We tore through the perimeter fencing of the private terminal, the heavy iron gates buckling under the force of the two-ton SUV.
Ahead of us, through the driving rain, I saw it. The sleek, silver Gulfstream G650. The boarding stairs were already retracting. The twin Rolls-Royce engines were spooling up, a deafening, high-pitched whine that vibrated in my teeth.
