The SUV bounced over the tarmac, heading toward a sleek white Gulfstream jet parked near the hangar.

Its engines were already whining, a high-pitched scream that filled the air.

A black town car was parked near the boarding stairs.

Two men in dark suits stood by the car, their hands inside their jackets.

Dominic slammed on the brakes, the SUV skidding to a halt twenty yards from the plane.

The door of the SUV flew open, and Dominic stepped out into the cold wind.

I followed him, the smell of jet fuel burning my throat.

One of the men by the town car drew his weapon.

“Stop right there, Mr. Valenti,” the man yelled over the noise of the engines.

Dominic didn’t stop. He walked directly toward the stairs of the plane.

Suddenly, the cabin door of the jet began to swing open.

A figure appeared in the doorway, framed by the bright lights of the cabin.

But it wasn’t Caterina.

It was a young man holding a black briefcase, his face pale with fear.

He looked down at us, then back inside the plane.