Chapter 3 - The Trap Sprung EarlyGrant didn't stand up, but his posture shifted like a coiled spring. His eyes swept over me with undisguised contempt.
"You look a little lost, Mr. Reed," Grant said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Economy is back that way. They serve peanuts and watered-down ginger ale. You shouldn't wander into civilized spaces; you might get soot on the upholstery."
I let out a low, easy chuckle, leaning my shoulder casually against the bulkhead frame. I needed to keep him talking, keep his attention anchored right here on me, away from the overhead bin.
"Just stretching my legs, Grant," I replied, meeting his gaze without blinking. "Long legs get cramped in row thirty-one. Must be nice up here. Plenty of legroom, expensive liquor, and enough space to hide things that don't belong to you."
Grant’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. The glass in his hand stopped swirling.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you’re carrying cargo that isn't yours," I said smoothly, stepping a little closer. "In my line of work, hauling freight across state lines, if you carry stolen property, you don't call it a business deal. You call it grand larceny. And the federal penalties are severe."
Grant set his glass down hard on the armrest, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal rim. He stood up then, towering over me by an inch, his tailored suit fitting him like a second skin. But beneath the expensive fabric, I could see the rigid tension of a man whose control was slipping.
"You are playing a very dangerous game with people you don't understand," Grant hissed quietly, stepping into my personal space. "Claire is a confused, hysterical girl who needs a firm hand. Her mother knows it. The board of directors knows it. The moment we land in Charlotte, security will escort her straight to the private vehicle, and you will crawl back onto whatever rusted-out diesel truck you drove to the airport. If you try to interfere, I will personally ensure you are blacklisted from every logistics firm from here to the Pacific coast."
It was an empty threat disguised as corporate authority—the kind of intimidation used by men who had never taken a punch in their lives and relied entirely on lawyers to do their dirty work.
"That sounds like a lot of work for a guy who’s sweating through his silk tie," I replied, my voice deadpan.
Before Grant could snap back, Evelyn’s voice cut through the aisle, sharp and icy.
"Grant. Sit down. You’re making a scene in front of the crew."
Grant stiffened, glancing past me at Evelyn. The older woman’s eyes were blazing with a cold, terrifying fury that even Grant seemed hesitant to challenge. With a final, venomous glare in my direction, Grant dropped back into his seat.
I gave him a slow nod, turned around, and walked back down the aisle toward economy, my heart pounding a steady, rhythmic beat against my ribs.
When I slid back into seat 31B next to Claire, she grabbed my arm instantly.
“What happened? What did he say?”
"He’s nervous," I whispered back, leaning my head close to hers so anyone watching would think we were sharing an intimate moment. "And his passport bag is in the overhead bin right above his seat. Unlocked."
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Claire stared at me, her breath catching in her throat. "You didn't... you didn't try to take it?"
"Not yet," I murmured, staring at the cabin ceiling as the plane began its gradual, invisible shift in trajectory, vectoring down toward the American eastern seaboard. "But by the time we land, we’re going to need a distraction."
