“Thank you,” I said.

I climbed the metal steps into the warm, narrow cabin of the plane.

The smell of leather and aviation fuel filled the air.

I sat in the single seat near the window and buckled my harness.

I opened my laptop and connected to the plane’s secure satellite network.

My primary account in Switzerland showed a balance of forty-two million dollars.

The funds had cleared forty minutes ago, transferred from Arthur’s holding companies in Panama.

He would not notice the missing capital until his accountants tried to post bail.

And by then, there would be no bail.

My screen flashed with an incoming alert from the city’s local news network.

A live feed showed the Costello estate.

Dozens of blue and red lights painted the wet stone walls of the mansion.

Federal agents in windbreakers were carrying boxes of files out of the front doors.

I saw Gregory on the screen, his hands zip-tied behind his back, his face pale and sweating under the flashbulbs.

My phone rang again.

This time, the screen displayed Arthur’s personal, unlisted number.

I hesitated for three seconds, then answered.