I opened the bag and counted out the brown-banded $5,000 stacks. There were forty.

“It’s all there,” I said.

I’m not sure what Cathy was told, if she thought I was paying off a ransom or blackmail or just going to one of the many strip clubs that were literally across the street, but she put her hand over mine and said, “Good luck.”

I thanked her, draped the duffel over my left shoulder, and checked my watch.

9:54 a.m.

Then I started running.

≈

I remember seeing an old Hertz rental car commercial when I was a kid. It had O. J. Simpson—young, handsome, pre–murder trial—and he was running through the airport hurdling over banisters and jumping over ropes.

That was me.

“Move!” I yelled, pushing a mother and daughter out of my way, then calling, “Sorry!” over my shoulder.

Both the little girl and the mother flipped me off.

Welcome to Miami.

I sidestepped past a few people on an escalator going down, knocking what appeared to be some fancy coffee drink out of one man’s hand, then started down a long, wide corridor.

I checked my watch.

10:03 a.m.

I sprinted—a difficult feat with the large pack and the blue duffel—toward a glass window where a small jet was beginning to taxi toward the runway.

“I need to get on that jet!” I shouted at a young woman behind a desk that read Elite Charter.

The woman’s eyes opened wide, and she brought a handheld radio to her lips. The plane on the runway continued for several more meters, then stopped.

I slowed down, drew a deep inhale through my nose, and put my hands behind my head.

A minute later, I was walking across the tarmac and up the steps into a compact jet shimmering white under the morning sun. I ducked into the plane and a flight attendant in all black with a white kerchief tied around her neck, said, “Welcome aboard.”

Her name tag read Molly.

I unshouldered my pack and handed it to her—she wasn’t touching the duffel—then she steered me toward twelve plush seats, six of them occupied.

Sitting in the first row was a man in his early fifties. He had slicked-back gray hair, crow’s feet clinging to light-brown eyes, a rakish five o’clock shadow, and teeth that were either a genetic miracle or perfectly polished veneers. It was a face that belonged on a Cialis commercial.

He stood, revealing he was an inch shorter than my six feet and said, “You must be our secret financier.”

I stuck out my hand. “Thomas Prescott.”

He gripped my hand, firmly, and grinned. “Jonathan Roth.”

Roth Media Inc.

I pulled the check from my back pocket and handed it to him. He took it with a smile, then turned to the other five passengers and said, “This is Thomas. He’s catching a ride with us.”