“You don't need to clear me.”
Charles gave a short laugh.
“Son, I've operated out of this airport for twenty-six years.”
Malcolm’s expression changed.
Not at son.
He had heard worse.
At operated.
Past tense spoken as present.
Charles continued.
“That G550 is a Whitaker aircraft.”
Malcolm looked toward the registration number near the tail.
“N502WG.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“Then you understand.”
“I understand exactly which aircraft it is.”
Charles stared.
The confidence annoyed him.
“You have business aboard?”
“Yes.”
“With whom?”
“The people waiting for me.”
Charles gave another humorless laugh.
“That's not an answer.”
“It is accurate.”
Charles removed his sunglasses halfway, studied Malcolm’s face, then pushed them back into place.
“I don't know you.”
Malcolm shifted the backpack higher.
“That can happen.”
Charles's jaw tightened.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“Then help me out.”
“I already have.”
Charles looked toward a ramp employee fifty yards away and raised one hand as though considering calling him over.
Malcolm saw the decision forming.
Security.
Verification.
Another adult summoned to determine whether Malcolm belonged where he already had permission to be.
He had promised himself years ago that if something like this happened again, he would not perform innocence for anyone.
No extra smile.
No exaggerated politeness.
No résumé delivered on demand.
He looked directly at Charles.
“Mr. Whitaker, I’m going to the aircraft now.”
Charles froze.
“You know who I am.”
“Yes.”
“And you still won't identify yourself.”
“I identified my company.”
“Your name.”
Malcolm took a breath.
“Malcolm Hayes.”
Nothing happened at first.
Charles repeated it silently.
Hayes.
Then his expression changed.
Not enough.
The acquisition documents had been full of names.
Attorneys.
Bankers.
Fund managers.
ClearSky executives.
Charles had read Malcolm Hayes dozens of times.
He had never met him.
The board presentation he skipped in person had been conducted by video with slides and financial schedules, not executive portraits.
Charles had assumed something without ever realizing he was assuming it.
Malcolm Hayes, in his mind, had been older.
Mid-forties at minimum.
Probably banker-looking.
Probably suit.
He had never consciously assigned a race.
He would later insist on that distinction for about three days before realizing it did not rescue him.
Charles stared.
“The Malcolm Hayes?”
Malcolm did not smile.
“I don't know how many you have.”
Charles opened his mouth.
Before he could answer, movement came from the Gulfstream.
A man in a dark pilot’s uniform stepped into the aircraft doorway.