The aircraft touched down at 8:06 a.m. Smooth landing—Greer's one genuine skill. The plane taxied toward the private terminal. Through the window, Simone could see her team standing at the base of the stairs. She recognized Nolan's posture before she could make out his face. She recognized the Suburban. She recognized the logo she'd designed herself fourteen years ago on a napkin in a diner outside Indianapolis.
Home—or the closest thing to it.
The aircraft stopped. The engines wound down. The forward door opened, and a set of stairs unfolded onto the tarmac. Greer appeared first. He adjusted his cap, smoothed his shirt over his belly, and positioned himself at the top of the stairs like a sentinel.
Then he turned and gestured to Ashland. "After you, Mr. Ashland. Your welcoming committee awaits."
Ashland stood, buttoned his jacket, shot his cuffs, and walked to the door with the confidence of a man who assumed every room and every tarmac was arranged for his arrival. He descended the stairs with a broad smile, right hand extended. He walked straight toward Nolan West.
"Gentlemen. Victor Ashland, here for the Fletcher Aeronautics partnership meeting." He thrust out his hand. "Which one of you is running the show?"
Nolan glanced at Ashland's hand and shook it once: brief, professional, cold. Then he looked past Ashland's shoulder toward the aircraft door. "We're aware of your appointment, Mr. Ashland. Someone from our partnerships team will be in touch to reschedule."
"Reschedule? I flew here specifically for this meeting."
"Our CEO hasn't deplaned yet," Nolan's eyes stayed on the aircraft. "We're waiting."
Ashland turned around, looked at the plane, and looked back at Nolan. "Your CEO is on this flight?"
Patricia stepped forward and checked her watch. "She should be right behind you."
Ashland blinked. Behind him, the other passengers filed down the stairs: the businessman with the magazine, the college kid with the headphones, a woman in a linen blazer, a couple holding hands.
Then the doorway was empty for a moment—just sunlight and the hum of the auxiliary power unit.
And then she appeared: oatmeal cardigan, canvas tote bag, reading glasses, hair pulled back in a simple twist. Simone Fletcher stood at the top of the stairs and looked down at the tarmac, at her team, at the Suburban, at the logo on the door, and at the two men—one in a suit, one in a uniform—who had spent the last two hours laughing about people like her.