"Everything all right back here?" He said it to the section, but he was looking at her. "I hope the accommodations are..." He paused, smirking. "...suitable for everyone."
The businessman next to Simone shifted uncomfortably. The college kid didn't notice. Simone met Greer's eyes, held them for exactly two seconds, then looked out the window.
Greer chuckled to himself and walked back to first class. As he passed Linda in the galley, he muttered, "At least she stayed quiet. Last thing I need is one of them making a scene on landing."
One of them, again. Linda nodded, said nothing. Complicity by silence.
In row 22, Simone closed her laptop, slid it into her tote bag, folded the leather notebook shut, and tucked it beside the laptop. Then she straightened her cardigan, adjusted her reading glasses, and sat back.
The plane descended through layers of cloud. Atlanta spread out below: highways like veins, buildings like teeth, the airport a sprawling organism of concrete and motion. Simone knew every runway, every taxiway designation, every square foot of the private terminal her company leased on the east side of the field.
She pulled out her phone. One notification, a reply to the text she'd sent two hours ago. Three words: We're ready, ma'am.
She read it, put the phone away, and for the first time since boarding, something close to a smile crossed her face. Not warm, not triumphant—just ready.
On the tarmac below, preparations were already underway. A black Suburban with tinted windows pulled into the private arrival zone. The Fletcher Aeronautics logo—an eagle in mid-climb over a stylized F—gleamed on the driver's door. Behind it was a second vehicle, a silver sedan.
Three people stepped out of the Suburban and lined up at the base of the jet stairs. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, hands clasped in front, posture straight. They looked like they were waiting for a head of state.
Nolan West, vice president of operations, 46, former logistics commander, US Navy. Built like a man who still did push-ups at 5:00 a.m., he carried a leather portfolio in his left hand and a tablet in his right. His jaw was set; he'd read the text, too.
Patricia Hayes, chief legal counsel, 51. Harvard Law, twenty years in aviation regulatory compliance before Simone hired her away from a firm that was billing her out at $900 an hour. She wore a charcoal suit and an expression that could freeze a deposition.
Garrett Cole, head of flight standards and safety, 39, former FAA inspector. The kind of man who read maintenance logs the way other people read novels: cover to cover, every footnote, every amendment. He was already holding a clipboard.
All three had received the same text. All three understood what it meant: the boss had found something. And when Simone Fletcher found something, people lost jobs.