Chapter 2
Chapter 2
The cabin hum of Flight 418 faded into a muffled, distant echo as Kristen’s fingers touched the rough paper. The handwriting across the front of the envelope was undeniably sharp, slant-edged, and unmistakable.
It belonged to Chief Warrant Officer Marcus Vance, the tactical lead she had officially signed off as lost at sea during the frantic evacuation of Operation Black Trough six long years ago in the frozen Atlantic.
Beside her, the sudden arrival of two armed airport police officers broke the fragile silence of the first-class cabin. Their heavy boots thumped rhythmically against the carpeted aisle with unmistakable, disciplined authority.
Captain Reynolds stepped back toward the bulkhead, his jaw set in a rigid line as he nodded directly to the senior officer. “Remove Mr. Sterling immediately,” he ordered clearly. “He will not fly on this aircraft today.”
Sterling sputtered in disbelief, his designer cufflinks catching the overhead light as his face turned a mottled, furious crimson. “Do you realize who I am? I run three sovereign funds! You will lose your career for this!”
The lead officer did not even blink at the empty bluster, pinning Sterling’s left arm firmly behind his back with practiced efficiency. “You’re trespassing on federal aircraft authority, sir. You can preach about your funds from the intake desk.”
Sterling’s expensive watch clattered against the stainless steel edge of the bulkhead as they marched him toward the jet bridge. The entire cabin watched in dead silence as his arrogance dissolved into pathetic, hurried protests.
Nancy stood pinned against the galley curtain, her paper-white face bowed low as the lead purser quietly relieved her of her service badge. “You may collect your personal things in the terminal, Nancy,” the purser murmured.
Kristen did not watch them leave, her eyes anchored entirely to the white parchment resting across her blue jeans. Her heart hammered against her ribs, waking memories of biting salt spray, screaming sirens, and frigid Arctic waves.
Kristen, if this reached your hands, Reynolds kept his promise, the letter began in dark ink. They told you I died beneath the ice shelf so nobody would ever ask what sank the research vessel.
Her breath caught in her throat as she read the precise coordinates listed beneath the opening line. They were fifty miles north of where the official Navy post-mission inquiry had claimed the deep-water operation occurred.
The telemetry never malfunctioned, Commander, Marcus wrote. Command scrubbed our logs because we didn't hit a submerged rock. We were ambushed by an unregistered salvage syndicate operating under private defense flags to steal oceanic seismic mapping data.