Kane drove faster than the speed limit and neither of them commented on it.
The private airstrip was three miles from the estate — a clean ribbon of tarmac behind a tree line, used for Kane's own jet and nobody else's without explicit authorization. Whoever had given Damian the coordinates had done so deliberately. That detail sat in the car between them like something that needed to be addressed but not yet, not while they were still moving.
They arrived to find Damian standing beside his jet on the tarmac with two lawyers and a sealed document case and the particular posture of a man who had prepared carefully for a confrontation and was now hoping the confrontation went the way he'd rehearsed. He was wearing a suit. He had shaved. He had tried, visibly, to look like he had everything
