Chapter 2 - The Inquiry
By minute twenty-five, the heat in the cabin had risen noticeably. The man in 31A was no longer texting; he was staring blankly at the safety card tucked into the seatback pocket.
Upfront, the invisible boundary between first class and the main cabin had dissolved. The silver-haired man in 3A was standing in the aisle, talking loudly to a junior flight attendant about his connection in Chicago. The woman in the cream blazer had her phone pressed to her ear, her face flushed with annoyance.
Patricia Hale emerged from the galley.
She did not look calm anymore. The perfect knot of her hair had a loose strand trailing near her ear, and her lipstick was pressed into a hard, white line. She walked briskly down the aisle, her eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding the questions shot at her by passengers in rows four, six, and twelve.
She kept walking.
Past the exit rows. Past the mid-cabin galley.
Row twenty. Row twenty-five. Row thirty.
Adrian watched her approach.
She stopped beside row 31. Her chest rose and fell beneath her uniform vest. She looked down at him, her expression a fragile mix of disbelief and rising panic.
“Mr. Cole,” she said, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper that barely carried over the engine rumble.
“Yes,” Adrian said mildly.
“The station manager is at the door. He wants to know why the ramp has been locked down by regional compliance.”
“Has it?”
“Don't play games with me,” Patricia snapped, her professionalism finally snapping under the weight of the unknown. “You made a phone call. What did you say?”
The woman beside Adrian in 31C closed her book, her eyes darting between Patricia and Adrian with sudden interest.
Adrian looked up at the flight attendant who, less than an hour ago, had treated his sweater and canvas bag as a sign of trespass.
“I told the truth,” Adrian said softly. “I told them that a passenger with a valid, scanned boarding pass was forcibly removed from his assigned seat without verification, based entirely on appearance.”
Patricia’s face went pale. “That’s an administrative matter. It gets handled through customer service forms, not—not a ramp hold.”
“Customer service forms are filed by people who expect to be ignored,” Adrian replied. “I prefer a more direct audit.”
Before Patricia could formulate a response, the forward public address system clicked on again. It wasn't the captain. It was a crisp, metallic voice that every airline employee feared: Captain Brooks, please contact ramp control on secure line four immediately.
May you like
Patricia’s shoulders jerked. She stared at Adrian for three seconds longer, her eyes searching for any sign of leverage, any weakness she could manage. Finding none, she turned on her heel and hurried back toward the front of the aircraft.
---
