The arc-lights of JFK Airport's Private Hangar Four buzzed with a low, electrical drone that vibrated straight through the cold concrete floor. Richard Hart's private executive Gulfstream sat idling on the center white line, its twin turbofans whining a high-pitched rhythm of escape.
Richard Hart stood at the base of the wing, his face pale under the harsh industrial lights. His hands were stuffed deep into his overcoat pockets. A team of two hired private mercenaries, clad in all black stood in a tight defensive position around the boarding stairs, their automatic weapons held at a low, tense ready.
A battered, unlabeled gray transport van tore across the concrete, its tires shrieking to a violent halt less than thirty yards from the idling jet.
The side cargo door slammed open. Dave Cosgrove stepped down onto the tarmac, his heavy canvas trench coat hanging loose. He reached back into the dark cabin and violently hauled a shivering, bound Victoria out into the light.
