I drove forty miles south, keeping my speed exactly five miles over the limit.

The rain began to slacken, turning into a gray, heavy mist that clung to the windshield.

I pulled into the gravel parking lot of a small, private airfield outside the city limits.

The rusted sign on the chain-link fence read *West Coast Charter Flights*.

I parked the sedan behind a shipping container, out of sight from the main road.

I took my leather briefcase from the passenger seat.

Inside were three passports, two encrypted flash drives, and the physical ledger containing thirty years of Costello tax evasion.

I walked through the side gate, the wet gravel crunching under my boots.

The hangar was lit by buzzing fluorescent bulbs.

A twin-engine turboprop plane sat on the tarmac, its engines already idling with a low, vibrating hum.

A man in a yellow slicker stood by the steps, holding a clipboard.

“Ms. Vance?” he asked, using the name on my Canadian passport.

“Yes,” I said. “Is everything ready?”

“Flight plan is logged for Vancouver, then a connection to Zurich,” he said, gesturing toward the cabin. “Weather is clearing up north. We leave in five minutes.”