“Evelyn, the van just breached the security gate at Hangar Four,” Miller’s voice grew louder. “The private jet is warming up on the taxiway.”

“I am entering the airfield perimeter now,” I said.

I turned off the highway, my tires skidding on the unplowed access road that led to the private hangars.

Up ahead, the chain-link security gate lay mangled on the ground, knocked off its tracks by the van.

I drove straight through the gap, the metal scraping against the bottom of my SUV.

The private airfield was a vast, open stretch of asphalt bordered by silver corrugated-metal hangars.

In the distance, the twin engines of a white Learjet screamed, the backdraft kicking up a blinding blizzard of loose snow.

The black Ford Transit was parked crookedly near the open doors of Hangar Four.

Its driver-side door was wide open, the engine still idling.

I slammed on my brakes, sliding to a halt fifty yards away from the aircraft.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, drew my weapon, and kicked my door open.

The freezing wind hit me instantly, carrying the sharp smell of burning aviation fuel.