“Hangar 21?” the artist asked as he eased languidly into the opulent vehicle like a rock star accustomed to this method of transport or a hip-hop artist ready for a weekend roll. “That’s where Mr. Riley’s fleet of jets are kept,” stated the driver succinctly. “Fleet?” questioned the entrepreneur, her beautiful brown eyes alive with an immensely curious look. “Yes,” was all the chauffeur would allow.
I have to get a fleet of jets
