The trip from London was a ghost ride. They rode in the dark before morning, directed to a plain van with blackout windows, then to a private aircraft in a secret hangar. No paparazzi, no shouting hordes. The world, for a brief few hours, receded to a muffled, far-off rumble. Jonah slept most of the way, his head on Clarkson's shoulder, exhaustion finally overcoming the adrenaline that had propelled him.He woke to the gentle thud of the wheels descending and the salty, wet scent of sea air filtering in through the cabin. Not the refined, sheened air of a large port, but the untamed, wild breath of a remote coast. When the door opened, the sound which greeted them was not traffic, but gulls screaming and the repeated, whispered huff of waves on a rocky shore.A narrow, hard-hitting tender stood in wait, its skipper a rough, wind-carved man who growled once at Clarkson. They thundered along a choppy grey channel, the spindrift ice scintillating their faces, into a sheltered, pine-rimme
Last Updated : 2025-10-20 Read more