I open the back gate of the Samurai and lift a blanket that covers a large duffel bag and a small backpack. I unzip the duffel bag. Inside are stacks of hundred-dollar bills. I take a picture with my phone, zip the bag back up, and cover it with the blanket. I slip my arms through the straps of the backpack, close the gate and lock the Samurai, then pace around the parking lot, keeping my legs warmed up.

At eight o’clock, my phone rings. Finn. I answer. “I’m here.”

“That’s a small backpack to be holding millions of dollars,” Finn says.

Although the fog obscures anything beyond the parking lot, the lot itself is clear enough. I can’t see anyone, though. Maybe Finn is behind one of the parked cars—there are already a few dozen despite the early hour. “My pack holds five hundred grand,” I say. “The rest is in a duffel bag in my car.”

“Bring the duffel with you.”

“I’ve got over two million in hundred-dollar bills. I’m not carrying fifty pounds of cash up a mountain.”

“In Iraq we’d carry twice that weight in gear.”

“We’re not in Iraq. I’m texting you a picture of the cash in the duffel.”

“And once I click on the attachment, it downloads malware onto my phone or some shit?”

“Yes, Finn, that’s my plan, because I’m actually an NSA agent and have a satellite overhead tracking your every move. No, you dipshit, it’s just a picture.”

Silence. I can feel the others holding their breath. I text Finn the picture, then raise my phone back to my ear. “I just sent the picture. When you give me Tane, I’ll give you the backpack and my car keys. You can take the car, too. The pink slip is in the glove compartment.”

More silence. I start to wonder if Finn is in one of the cars in the lot, then decide against it. Wherever he is, he’ll want to be able to move freely and quickly, which he couldn’t do if he was inside a—

There’s been a very faint noise in the background, almost like a tiny box fan, and now, just as my brain consciously registers the sound, my brain also identifies it. I look up and there it is, maybe a hundred feet overhead, black against the overcast sky—a quadcopter drone, hovering over the parking lot like a strange dragonfly. Drones are illegal in the park, but then again so is kidnapping.

I look directly at the drone and say into the phone, “What do you want me to do?”

“See the signs for the trail?” Finn says. “Start walking uphill.” He ends the call.