Chapter 7 - The Tarmac Interrogation
The remote tarmac bay at JFK was freezing, the autumn wind howling across the concrete expanse as the mobile stairs rolled away from the aircraft door.
Port Authority police officers escorted us down the metal steps one by one. I carried my sleeping baby cradled tightly against my chest inside my winter coat, while Louise walked beside me, her small hand glued to mine, her fingers ice-cold. Two black federal SUVs idled near the base of the stairs, their headlights cutting harsh amber beams through the swirling mist of the jet exhaust.
The man in the trench coat—who introduced himself as Special Agent Vance, no relation to the corporate family, though the coincidence tasted like ash—ushered us away from the main terminal toward a windowless mobile command van parked behind the hangars.
"Inside. Now," Agent Vance ordered, pulling open the heavy steel side door of the vehicle.
The interior smelled of ozone, hot servers, and stale coffee banks. Rows of monitors cast a pale blue glow across computer terminals displaying cascading lines of code and corporate structural trees. Sitting in a leather swivel chair at the back of the van, scrolling calmly through a tablet, was a woman who looked like she belonged in a penthouse boardroom rather than a cold airport hangar.
She wore an immaculate camel-wool coat, her silver-streaked blonde hair pulled back into a severe French twist. When we stepped inside, she lowered the tablet and looked us over with clinical detachment.
"So," Victoria Sterling said, her voice smooth, cultured, and dripping with thinly veiled venom. "This is the domestic disruption that brought down our eastern logistics server in the middle of a routine Tuesday audit."
I stepped protectively in front of Louise, shielding my daughter with my body. "If you touch my children, I will tear this airport apart. My husband died working yourself into the ground for your company, and now you're harassing my little girl because she caught your employee acting like a monster?"
Victoria didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head, studying me with cold, analytical curiosity.
"Your husband, Arthur Miller, was a brilliant structural engineer," Victoria said softly, setting her tablet down on the console. "He built our primary automated logistics routing grid. Unfortunately, Arthur had a habit of keeping personal records—backups of every override code, every shipping manifest, and every financial loophole we used to keep the company afloat during the market crash of 2023."
My breath caught. "What are you talking about? Arthur died in a car accident. The police investigated—"
"The police investigated a tragic accident on Route 80," Victoria interrupted smoothly. "They didn't investigate what was in his briefcase at the time of the crash. A briefcase that mysteriously vanished from the wreckage before local emergency services arrived."
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Louise’s grip on my hand suddenly tightened so hard my fingers ached.
"I know where it is," Louise said.
