“Block the taxiway,” Nathan ordered into the receiver. “Use the secondary trucks. Do not let that aircraft reach the runway.”

Our driver, a retired state trooper named Marcus, slammed his foot on the gas.

The SUV jolted over a gravel shoulder, bypassing the main airport security gate.

Dust flew up against the windshield, turning the bright Tennessee sunshine into a yellow haze.

Through the side window, I saw two black security trucks speed onto the tarmac from the eastern hangar gate.

They drove directly into the path of the white twin-engine jet.

The jet’s engines whined, the pitch changing as the pilot hit the brakes.

The aircraft shuddered to a halt yards away from the perimeter fence.

“He’s stuck,” Nathan said, hanging up the phone. “We’re going in.”

Marcus stopped our SUV near the private terminal entrance.

The glass doors of the terminal slid open as we ran toward them.

Inside, the lobby was quiet, smelling of expensive leather and stale coffee.

Standing near the desk was Vanessa Hale.

She wore a cream-colored trench coat, her blonde hair perfectly styled, holding a leather travel bag.