Thank you, Elellanena, Damian said. He paused on the first step. He turned back to look at Preston. Preston was standing in the rain, his mouth open, his expensive suit ruining, his world crumbling. "Oh, and Preston," Damian called out, his voice cutting through the drizzle.

"Yes," Preston squeaked. "You mentioned you like to keep the riffraff out." Damian gestured to the terminal building. "You might want to start packing your office. I don't like riffraff managing my assets."

Damian turned and walked up the stairs. The door hissed shut, the lock engaged, and Preston Carmichael was left standing in the rain, realizing that the Karma train hadn't just arrived. It had landed on his head. The moment the heavy composite door of the Gulfream G700 hissed shut, and the locking pins engaged with a solid thud, the world of rain, noise, and Preston Carmichael ceased to exist. Damian stood in the entryway for a moment, water dripping from the hem of his ruined hoodie onto the plush handwoven wool carpet.

The sudden silence was jarring. The cabin was pressurized, temperature controlled to a perfect 68°, and smelled faintly of bergamont and aged teik. Mr. Sterling, the flight attendant, Chloe, a woman of impeccable grace, who had been with his flight crew for 3 years, stepped forward with a thick, warmed Egyptian cotton towel. She didn't bat an eye at his appearance.

She had seen him bored in tuxedos after galas and in mudcaked boots after desert hikes. To Kloe, he wasn't a billionaire. He was the principal. I'm sorry about the carpet, Chloe, Damian murmured, accepting the towel and burying his face in it. The warmth was instant, seeping into his chilled skin.

The carpet can be replaced, sir, Khloe said softly. Are you injured? That man outside, he seemed aggressive. Just his ego, Damen said, lowering the towel, and shortly his career. He walked further into the cabin.

The G700 was a masterpiece of aeronautical engineering, the longest and most spacious cabin in business aviation. It was divided into five living areas. Damian bypassed the club suite and the entertainment zone, heading straight for the master bedroom at the rear. Captain Ali is holding position, Kloe informed him, walking briskly to the galley. He said he won't spool the engines until you give the word.

He also mentioned something about blocking the view. Damian paused at the door to the master suite. Tell Omali to keep the engines idling. I want them to feel the vibration through the floorboards and tell him to turn on all exterior flood lights. I want that lounge illuminated like a prison yard.

Understood, sir. And for you? I need 5 minutes, Damian said, unzipping the soaked hoodie. And then I need my laptop, the secure one, and get me a line to the board of directors for Athetherious Aviation. The management company that runs the terminal?

Kloe asked, pausing with a crystal tumbler in her hand. "Yes," Damen said, his eyes darkening. "It's time I made an investment." Inside the master suite, Damen stripped off the wet clothes. He threw the cheap hoodie into a laundry hamper lined with cedar.

He moved to the wardrobe built into the bulkhead. Inside hung a row of pristine suits, Tom Ford, Brion, Zegna. He selected a navy blue three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt with a stiff collar, and a pair of black oxfords that shone like obsidian. As he dressed, the transformation was physical, the slump in his shoulders from the exhaustion of the Newark negotiations vanished. He wasn't the tired traveler anymore.

He was Damian Sterling, the man who had laid the fiber optic cables that connected continents. He checked his reflection in the fulllength mirror. The man looking back was sharp, cold, and ready for war. He walked back out into the main cabin. Khloe had already set up his workspace at the large conference table.

A steaming cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee sat on a coaster. His ruggedized militaryra laptop was open, connected to the jet's K-band satellite internet, the fastest connection available in the sky. Damian sat down. He didn't look out the window yet. He cracked his knuckles and began to type.

His fingers flew across the keyboard. He wasn't checking email. He was accessing the back end of the global financial exchange. He pulled up the corporate structure of Athereious Aviation Holdings. It was a midsized conglomerate, publicly traded but struggling.

Their stock had dipped 12% in the last quarter due to mismanagement of their European hubs. They were vulnerable. Damian checked his own liquidity. The Red Line Logistics deal he had just closed in Newark hadn't hit the wire yet, meaning he had approximately $4 billion in liquid capital sitting in his holding accounts waiting for a home. He pulled up the contact info for the chairman of the board of Ethere, a man named Jonathan Vain.

Damian knew Vain. They played golf at the same club in the Hamptons, though Vain usually ignored Damian, thinking him too young to be relevant. Damian initiated a video call. The screen blinked. It was 7 p. m. on a Friday, but men like Jonathan Vain didn't stop working.

Vain's face appeared on the screen. He looked annoyed, sitting in a home office with mahogany bookshelves. This is a private line. Who is this? Jonathan, Damian said, his voice smooth, amplified by the jet's surround sound system.

It's Damian Sterling. Vain squinted at the camera. Sterling? Sterling Dynamics. How did you get this number?

My assistant handles my I have my ways. Jonathan, we need to talk right now. I'm having dinner with my wife, Damian. Call my office on Monday. I don't think you'll want to wait until Monday, Damian said, leaning back in the leather seat.

Because by Monday, your stock price is going to be trading for pennies if we don't resolve a situation at your Teterboro terminal. Vain paused. Teterborough? What situation? I'm currently sitting on the tarmac, Damian said, in my G700.

I was just physically assaulted and evicted from your first class lounge by a manager named Preston Carmichael. He threw me out into the rain because he didn't like my hoodie. Vain went pale. He He evicted you. Damian, I apologize.

That's unacceptable. I'll have him reprimanded. I'll send you a voucher for I don't want a voucher, Jonathan. Damian cut him off. And I don't want a reprimand.

I want the terminal. Excuse me. I'm looking at your financials, Damian said, glancing at a second monitor. You're leveraged to the hilt on the new Dubai expansion. You need cash flow.

I'm offering to buy the Teterborough lease outright tonight. Damian, that's that's a $und00 million asset. We can't just I'll pay a 20% premium over market value, Damian said calmly. Cash immediate transfer, but the deal closes in 10 minutes. Or I tweet to my 4 million followers, many of whom are your biggest clients that Athereious Aviation discriminates against tech founders and assaults passengers.

I'll short your stock, Jonathan. I'll drive it into the ground before the market opens on Monday. Vain was silent. He was a businessman. He knew a shark when he saw one, and he knew Damian wasn't bluffing.

"20% premium," Vain asked, his voice shaking slightly. "Why are hitting your escrow in 5 minutes?" Damian said, "But I have one condition. Name it. I want full operational control effective immediately.

And I want you to patch me into the PA system of the Teter Lounge. I want to make an announcement to my new employees. Vain sighed. He picked up a pen. Send the contract, Damian.

The terminal is yours. Back inside the athetherious executive lounge, the mood had shifted from smug satisfaction to palpable anxiety. Preston Carmichael had returned inside, but he was no longer the conquering hero. He was soaking wet. His expensive Italian suit was dark with rain, the shoulders sagging.

His perfectly gelled hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked like a drowned rat. He stood by the window, staring at the massive midnight blue jet parked just feet away. The flood lights of the aircraft were blinding, washing the entire lounge in a harsh clinical white light. It felt like an interrogation room.

Mr. Carmichael. Sarah the waitress approached him cautiously. Here's a towel. Preston slapped the towel out of her hand.

Get away from me. Easy, Preston. Arthur Finch the banker said. He was no longer sitting. He was standing near the door, his phone in hand.

He had been making calls. You might want to calm down. Calm down? Preston spun around, water spraying from his sleeves. That lunatic nearly crashed his plane into my building.

I'm calling the FAA. I'm calling the police. I'm going to have him arrested for reckless endangerment. I wouldn't do that if I were you, Finch said, his voice devoid of the earlier camaraderie. And why not?

Preston snapped. You saw him. He's a menace, a vagrant with a stolen plane. Finch shook his head, looking at Preston with a mixture of pity and contempt. You really don't know who that is, do you?

I don't care who he is. That's Damian Sterling, Finch said, founder of Sterling Dynamics. He built the cloud infrastructure for the New York Stock Exchange. He owns Redline Logistics. I just checked the tail number.

That plane, it's registered to a holding company that owns well, pretty much everything. The room went silent. The oils lowered her phone. The rapper by the window took off his sunglasses. Preston felt a cold knot form in his stomach.

Sterling. He's worth about $18 billion, Finch continued ruthlessly. And his company, they handle the IT security for this airport. Hell, they handle the IT security for your parent company. Preston's knees felt weak.

He grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. But he was wearing a hoodie. He had mud on his shoes. He's a tech mogul, you idiot, Finch said, stepping away from Preston as if stupidity were contagious. They don't wear suits.

They wear whatever they want because they own the building. Preston looked back at the jet. The engines were still humming. A low, menacing growl that vibrated the glass. The lights were still pinning him down.

I I have to fix this. Preston stammered. I need to go out there. Apologize. Tell him it was a misunderstanding.

He ran to the reception desk. Greg, get me the passenger manifest again. Get me his contact number. Greg was staring at his computer screen, his face pale. Mr.