When my feet touched the floor, my knees threatened to collapse.
Dario immediately tightened his grip.
He didn’t let me fall.
He adjusted his hold so most of my weight rested against him, guiding me toward the exit.
The stairs were lowered.
Cold air rushed into the cabin, carrying the faint scent of asphalt and ocean salt.
Dario stepped out first.
Ethan followed.
They helped me descend slowly, one step at a time.
I focused on breathing.
On placing one foot down.
Then the next.
By the time we reached the bottom, my muscles were trembling violently.
Waiting for us on the tarmac was a formation of men.
At least fifty.
Maybe more.
They stood in rigid attention, black tactical gear fitted tightly against their frames.
Rifles rested low but ready.
Earpieces blinked faint blue lights.
Eyes scanned constantly—rooftops, parked vehicles, treelines beyond the perimeter.
They weren’t casually guarding.
They were securing. Protecting.
The way they stood made it clear: This wasn’t a welcome party. It was a defensive blockade.
We were treated like high-value targets.
Or perhaps like royalty under threat.
A long black Escalade rolled forward from a secured position near the runway.
Its windows were tinted so dark they reflected nothing.
Ethan opened the rear door.
I expected a regular seat.
Instead, the interior had been customized.
