"No."
"I said put it away. You are not authorized to record crew members."
"I'm authorized to record what happens in a public space. Thirty-one years at CNN taught me that." The cabin was dead silent now. Even the hum of the engines seemed to fade. Mr. Douglas in 1B had closed his laptop.
Mrs. Crawford had turned fully around in her seat. Every passenger was watching. Heather's eyes darted. Left, right, up, down.
Janice's phone, the passengers staring. Briana standing in the aisle motionless, her belongings still scattered at her feet. Cornered. That's when Heather's mask crumbled.
She turned back to Briana, stepped forward, close, too close, so close Briana could see the veins in Heather's neck throbbing beneath the pressed collar. "You think you're smart? You think this little stunt is going to work? I've had passengers like you before.
You cause a scene, cry racism, and wait for a payout. Well, not on my plane."
Her voice dropped to a hiss. "Now sit down before I have you removed in handcuffs. I will end you." Briana didn't step back.
She looked straight into Heather's eyes. And for the first time she spoke not with patience, but with something harder. Something forged over four decades of moments exactly like this one. "You won't touch me, and you won't talk to me like that.
Not here. Not anywhere."
The slap came fast. Open palm, full swing. The crack echoed through the cabin like a whip.
Briana's head snapped to the right. Her hand went to her cheek, slow, almost gentle, like she was checking to make sure her own face was still there. The skin burned hot under her fingers. Mrs. Crawford gasped.