He walked to the door, stepping out into the mud.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “An escort will take you to the safehouse in twenty minutes.”

“I will wait,” I said.

As soon as his boots clicked down the porch steps, I moved.

I grabbed my leather bag from behind the sofa.

Inside were three different passports, each with a different name and a different history.

I checked the flight tracker on my phone.

The private charter at the regional airfield was scheduled to depart in one hour.

It was a small runway, tucked behind the pine forests, far from the city’s commercial airports.

No security lines, no customs agents waiting for a red flag.

Just a pilot I had paid in cash through a shell company.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket.

The wind howled louder, shaking the wooden frame of the cabin.

I looked down at the floor where Arthur had lain just minutes before.

A small pool of his blood was mixing with the rainwater leaking through the broken window.

For years, I had scheduled his meetings, bought his suits, and cleaned up his messes.