“I will call you back,” Daniel said, and the line went dead.

Vance pushed the SUV faster, the speedometer needle climbing as we crossed the George Washington Bridge.

The lights of the New Jersey turnpike stretched out ahead of us.

“We have five minutes,” Vance said, looking at his dashboard clock. “The Port Authority police are already at the Jet Aviation gate.”

We took the exit for Teterboro, the industrial warehouses of Moonachie lining the road.

Vance turned onto the airport perimeter road, driving past the dark hangars.

Up ahead, blue and red emergency lights flashed against the metal side of a building.

Two Port Authority police cruisers were parked near the security fence.

The gate was open, and Vance drove the SUV straight through, onto the tarmac.

The wind was strong out here, carrying the sharp scent of aviation fuel.

A hundred yards away, a white Gulfstream G-four sat with its auxiliary power unit whining.

The passenger stairs were down.

A figure in a long dark coat was standing at the bottom of the stairs, arguing with two uniformed officers.

It was Grant.