“The helipad on the north side,” the man stammered, pointing toward the far end of the tarmac. “She’s transferring the treasury accounts before she takes off.”

Dominic turned back to the SUV, his coat billowing in the freezing wind.

“Get in,” he shouted to me.

I didn’t hesitate.

I scrambled into the passenger seat, the smell of leather and stale coffee filling my nose as I slammed the door.

Dominic threw the vehicle into reverse, the tires screeching against the asphalt before he shifted gears and tore across the empty runway.

In the distance, past the looming hangars, the red and white lights of a helicopter began to spin.

The heavy thump-thump of the rotor blades vibrated through the floorboards of the SUV.

“She’s draining everything,” I said, staring at the live feed on my phone. “She’s going to take Lucia and leave the country.”

“She won’t,” Dominic said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “The federal warrants were signed ten minutes ago.”

He swerved around a fuel truck, the headlights cutting through the dark, rainy mist of the tarmac.