A few keystrokes. The printer spit out a boarding pass. The woman slid it across the counter without making eye contact. "Gate's to your left. Boarding in twelve minutes."
Simone took the pass, tucked it into her tote, and walked toward the gate. She passed a man in a tailored navy suit who got a full smile and a "Welcome aboard, sir." She noticed. She always noticed.
At the end of the jet bridge, the aircraft waited: a Gulfstream G700, $75 million of aerospace engineering wrapped in pearl-white paint. Its interior had been custom-designed, from the carpet fibers to the stitching on the headrests. Simone knew every inch of it. She knew the thread count on the seat covers. She knew the exact shade of walnut on the trim panels. She knew the tail number by heart: November 715 Echo Foxtrot. Her mother's birthday, November 15th.
But nobody here knew that.
Captain Derek Greer had fifteen years in the air. Former Air Force transport pilot, square jaw, steel-gray temples, the kind of posture that said he'd never slouched a day in his life. He ran his aircraft like a military operation. Every passenger got sized up the moment they stepped through the door.
Simone had stepped through the door, and Greer's eyes had tracked her from shoes to hair in under two seconds: canvas tote, worn boots, no watch, no rings, dark skin. He'd already made his decision.
Now Simone sat in row 22, middle seat, between a sleeping businessman and a college kid with headphones. She placed her canvas tote beneath the seat in front of her, adjusted her reading glasses, and looked toward the front of the cabin, where the cream leather seats glowed under soft lighting.
Those seats. She'd personally selected the upholstery for each one.
She pulled out her phone, opened a single contact, typed three words, and hit send. Then she folded her hands in her lap and waited.
Row 22, middle seat. Between a businessman drooling on his own shoulder and a college kid bobbing his head to music no one else could hear. Simone Fletcher sat down, buckled her seatbelt, pressed her back against the seat, and for the first time since the guards grabbed her, she let herself breathe.
Her right arm throbbed. Four red marks ran across her forearm where the guard's fingers had dug in. She pulled her cardigan sleeve down to cover them. Not because she was ashamed, but because she wasn't ready to think about it yet. The bruise was already darkening. She pressed two fingers against it and felt the heat rise through her skin.
A souvenir. That's what it was. A souvenir from a man who decided her seat assignment mattered less than her skin color.
The cabin hummed. Overhead bins clicked shut. The seatbelt sign chimed on. And from the front of the plane came a sound that made her jaw tighten: laughter.
Captain Derek Greer stood at the entrance of the jet bridge, belly pressing against his uniform shirt, hand extended like he was greeting royalty. The man walking toward him looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine ad for Swiss watches: silver hair swept back, navy suit tailored to the millimeter, a tan so even it had to come from a bottle. Victor Ashland, 53 years old, real estate—old money married to new ambition.