The reflection of the streetlights rippled across the dashboard.

“Five minutes to the international terminal, Mr. Vance,” Thomas called out from the front seat.

I pulled up the flight tracker on my phone.

The London flight was delayed by twenty minutes due to the weather.

We still had a chance.

“Adrian won’t have security access,” Julian noted, looking out his window.

“He’ll be stuck at the ticket counter or the security checkpoint.”

“He knows the international terminal manager,” I said.

“He did a consulting job for them three years ago.”

“He’ll try to use his name to get through.”

The car pulled up to the curb outside Terminal 5.

The wind hit us the moment Thomas opened the door, carrying the scent of jet fuel and wet asphalt.

Julian held his coat closed against the sleet.

We walked quickly through the sliding glass doors into the warm, bright terminal.

The air inside smelled of stale coffee, floor wax, and damp coats.

A long line of travelers snaked toward the British Airways counter.

I scanned the crowd, looking for Adrian’s tall, frantic frame.