"Security protocol. For unverified passengers, we're required to inspect all personal belongings before landing."
Olivia closed her laptop slowly, set it on the seat beside her. "There's no such protocol on a private charter," she said. "I've flown private for years. No one has ever searched my bag."
"Well, this is my aircraft, and I'm responsible for safety on board. I need to see inside your bag."
"No."
The word was quiet, simple, complete.
Brenda's nostrils flared, just slightly, like a horse that's been tugged back by the reins and doesn't like it. "Ma'am, if you refuse to cooperate with a safety inspection, I will have to notify the captain and request an emergency diversion. You'll be met by airport security on the ground. Is that what you want?"
Olivia looked at Brenda, studying her face the way you study a document with errors in it: carefully, thoroughly, without emotion. "Go ahead. Call the captain."
Brenda didn't call the captain. Instead, she reached up to the overhead bin above Olivia's seat. Her fingers found the latch. She pulled it open and grabbed the handle of Olivia's leather laptop bag, the only piece of luggage she'd brought.
"Don't touch my belongings," Olivia said.
Brenda pulled the bag halfway out of the bin.
"I said, don't touch my bag."
Brenda didn't stop. She yanked the bag fully out of the bin and held it against her chest. The zipper jingled. A pen rolled out of the side pocket and bounced off the cabin floor with a tiny plastic click.
Olivia stood up. In the narrow aisle of the Gulfstream, there was barely room for one person to stand comfortably. Now there were two, face-to-face, close enough to feel each other's breath. Olivia was taller than Brenda by 2 inches. She looked down at her with calm, dark eyes.