The next evening, Cyrus pulled into a private terminal, the Mercedes purring to a stop beside a sleek building far removed from the main airport's chaos.
Kane peered through the window, confusion evident in his expression.
"Where are the crowds? The crying babies? The existential dread of economy class?" he asked, clutching his carry-on.
"This is a private terminal," Cyrus replied, handing his keys to a waiting attendant.
Kane followed Cyrus into the building, eyes widening in amazement as they bypassed every inconvenience he'd mentally prepared for.
No lines snaked before them, no harried travelers jostled for position, and no overpriced coffee shops tempted the weary.
Instead, an elegant concierge greeted Cyrus by name. "Good evening, Mr. Drakhal and Mr. Ashwood, please follow me."
Private security appeared—two discreet professionals who scanned their bags and conducted checks with such smooth professionalism that Kane barely registered the process.
