I scanned the placards above the doorframes until I found it: FBO Tarmac Access — Alpha Private.

“My jet’s at the corporate hangar,” I said, pulling a bypass card from my wallet. “Less than half a mile.”

The card cost me half a million a year in sponsorships and granted me unescorted access to my aircraft, clear of the commercial hubs. I slid it through the reader beside the steel door at the end of the hall.

The light went from stubborn red to solid green.

The door swung out into the blinding midday Las Vegas sun and the roar of a corporate jet taxiing on the adjacent runway. The heat hit like a wall, well past a hundred degrees, the air shimmering.

I shielded the twins’ eyes and scanned the apron. My silver Gulfstream sat near the Signature Flight Support building, three hundred yards out. Ground crew in yellow vests stood by a fuel truck.