Private security

The unit moved through the terminal like a shadow cast in silk and steel. At the center of the formation stood Sloane, a commanding figure whose deep, dark complexion was framed by a striking mane of platinum-blonde hair. She led the group with a predator’s stride, her black suit straining slightly against her powerful frame as she navigated the red carpet toward the idling Gulfstream. ​Flanking her in perfect, rhythmic synchronization were Amara and Jade, while Reza anchored the rear, her eyes scanning the glass heights of JFK for any sign of pursuit. Clad in identical black uniforms and tactical gloves, the four women gripped their biometric briefcases with a tension that turned heads; they didn't look like a security detail—they looked like a heist mid-execution. As the roar of the jet engines drowned out the city, Sloane ascended the stairs without a backward glance, the heavy cabin door sealing behind them to turn the world's busiest airport into a distant memory.