The Gulfstream G650 screamed through the stratosphere, its twin engines howling at a pitch that vibrated through the marrow of my bones. Outside the window, the world was a blurred smear of midnight blue and terminal gray. Inside, the air was thick with the ozone of electronics and the metallic tang of unsheathed weapons.
"Forty minutes," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Forty minutes is a lifetime for a ghost."
I looked at the monitor. The SUV on the screen had stopped. The "executioner"—the man the files said died in a Langley-sanctioned 'liquidation' three years ago—stepped out. He didn't rush. He moved with the terrifying, fluid grace of a predator who knew the fence was down and the hounds were muzzled. He checked a matte-black watch, then looked directly into the camera lens. He didn't smile; he simply blinked, and the feed flickered into a swarm of digital snow.
