I walked toward the side exit, the heavy glass doors sliding open to let in a gust of cold, wet air.

A black sedan was idling at the curb, its windshield wipers sweeping back and forth.

I got into the back seat, the leather cold against my legs.

“Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

“JFK,” I said. “Terminal Four.”

The driver nodded and pulled the car into the heavy afternoon traffic.

The city outside was a blur of yellow cabs and gray umbrellas.

I leaned my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes for a brief second.

The battle was not over, but the foundation of Preston’s power had been demolished.

He had nothing left but a ticket to a country that would not protect him.

My phone vibrated in my lap.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the screen.

It was an incoming call from an unknown number with a Washington, D.C. area code.

My breath caught in my throat.

I swiped the screen to answer and placed the phone to my ear.