Chapter 2 - The First-Class ReconnaissanceThree hours into the flight, the cabin lights dimmed to a soft twilight blue. Most of the passengers in economy had reclined their seats and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the drone of the jet engines crossing the mid-Atlantic corridor.
Claire was staring blankly out the window at the endless sea of starry night sky.
"You need to rest," I murmured.
"I can't sleep, Mason. Every time I close my eyes, I see Grant standing at the end of the aisle holding my red passport folder like a trophy."
"He won't get it back to you easily, but he also won't destroy it yet," I analyzed, keeping my voice low. "He needs you compliant for this engagement dinner. A lost passport creates panic at customs, and panic draws federal attention. Grant is arrogant, but he’s not stupid. He has it locked in his leather carry-on bag in the first-class overhead bin."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Because men like Grant are creatures of habit. They keep their leverage within arm's reach," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt slowly. "Stay here. Lock your tray table. Do not talk to anyone."
"Mason, what are you doing?" Claire caught my sleeve, her eyes flashing with alarm. "You can't just walk up to first class—"
"Watch me."
I stood up, adjusting the collar of my faded denim shirt. I didn't look like a first-class passenger. I looked like a blue-collar worker who had wandered into the wrong cabin by mistake. As I stepped into the aisle, several passengers stirred, but I kept my posture steady, adopting the heavy, purposeful stride of a man used to walking across shifting gravel and loading docks.
The flight attendant by the galley—a young man with a crisp tie and an exhausted smile—intercepted me before I crossed the curtain.
"Sir, economy lavatories are located at the rear of the aircraft. First class is restricted—"
"I know," I interrupted, flashing a slow, weathered grin that completely disarmed him. "My wife is up there in row three with her mother. She left her prenatal vitamins in my coat pocket back in row thirty-one, and she’s starting to get morning sickness. If I don't get these to her, she’s going to turn this aisle into a disaster zone. Do you want to clean that up, or can I just drop them off quick?"
The flight attendant’s face paled at the mere thought of a biohazard cleanup in mid-air. He stepped aside immediately. "Make it quick. And stay behind the curtain."
"Appreciate it, brother."
I slipped past the velvet divider. The atmosphere in first class was dead quiet. The air smelled of expensive cologne, roasted nuts, and aged bourbon.
Row three.
Evelyn Bennett was sitting in seat 3C, her eyes closed, though I could tell by the rigid tension in her jaw that she wasn't sleeping. Across the aisle, in seat 3A, Grant was stretched out, his eyes shut, his expensive leather briefcase resting on the floor between his feet, while his primary carry-on bag sat directly overhead in the bin marked 3A/3B.
I didn't hesitate. I walked smoothly past Grant’s row, pretending to look for a non-existent restroom. As I passed Evelyn, she didn't open her eyes, but her hand twitched against the armrest, brushing against my knuckles in a subtle, calculated signal.
The overhead bin.
I reached the bulkhead, turned around, and pretended to stretch my arms, letting my hands graze the latches of the overhead bins. Grant's dark leather duffel bag was right there. I tested the zipper with my thumb—unlocked.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet hum of the cabin.
May you like
"Can I help you, truck driver?"
I didn't flinch. I turned slowly to find Grant watching me with a cold, predatory smirk, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
