The rain continued to beat against the windshield, the wipers making a rhythmic, scraping sound.

When we arrived, the massive gray silhouette of the C-17 stood on the tarmac.

Its four jet engines were idling, sending a low rumble through the wet ground.

I walked up the rear cargo ramp, my boots wet from the puddles on the concrete.

Inside, the plane was cold and smelled of hydraulic fluid and metal.

Rachel sat in one of the red nylon jump seats along the side of the fuselage.

She was wrapped in a green military wool blanket, her hands still cuffed in front of her now.

Her head was bowed, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks.

Two federal marshals sat on either side of her, their faces blank.

I took a seat across from them, strapping myself into the harness.

One of the marshals looked at me and nodded.

“We are cleared for takeoff as soon as the doors are locked, Commander,” he said.

“Good,” I said.

“Let’s get her home.”

The cargo ramp began to rise, slowly blocking out the gray European sky.