A black SUV was idling near the exit, its headlights cutting through the shadows.

Nathan’s driver, a quiet man named Marcus, immediately jumped out and opened the rear door for us.

We scrambled inside, and the door slammed shut.

“Go, Marcus,” Nathan said. “The private terminal at Tune.”

The SUV accelerated out of the garage, the tires squealing slightly on the smooth concrete.

We burst out into the bright afternoon sun of Nashville, the traffic on Rosa L. Parks Boulevard stretching out ahead of us.

I grabbed Nathan’s arm, my knuckles white.

“What if the pilot ignores the hold?” I asked. “What if they take off anyway?”

Nathan looked out the window, his jaw set.

“The airport authority can block the runway with ground vehicles,” Nathan said. “And my team is already positioned near the hangar gate.”

His phone buzzed in his hand.

He looked down at the screen, his expression tightening.

“It’s Miller,” Nathan said, answering the call and putting it on speaker. “Miller, what’s the status?”

“The pilot is taxiing, sir,” Miller’s voice came through the speaker, competing with the roar of a jet engine in the background. “They’re ignoring the ground control tower’s instructions.”