Chapter 1 - The Threat at Terminal B
The terminal floor seemed to thrum beneath my Italian leather shoes with a low, vibrating hum that had nothing to do with the jet engines outside.
Kylie swung her small legs back and forth, her frayed purple sneakers lightly tapping against the metal base of the airport seats. She had no idea that forty yards away, a man carrying a weighted briefcase was slowly closing the distance, his eyes darting between the crowd and the floor-to-ceiling windows where we sat.
My phone buzzed again in my palm. The encrypted screen flickered with red text from Marco:
CHICAGO DEAL TIMEOUT: 04:12 RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION. TARGET IS ARMED.
Three million dollars in untraceable cryptocurrency was slipping away with every tick of the clock. Two months of planning, six shell corporations, and the foundation of my syndicate’s Midwest expansion—all hanging on a single tap of my thumb.
I looked down at Kylie. She was meticulously picking a piece of lint off her patched jeans, completely unbothered by the world burning around her.
"Kylie," I said, my voice dropping into the quiet, controlled tone I used when directing multi-million-dollar operations. "Where exactly was the bathroom your mom went to?"
She pointed her small forefinger toward the main concourse near Gate B4. "Over there. Past the book shop with the bright yellow sign. She told me to stay right here because she had to fix her hair before her big meeting."
I looked toward B4. Positioned near the entrance of the restroom corridor was a second man in a dark trench coat, pretending to look at a rack of magazines while keeping a line of sight on the women's door.
They weren't just watching me. They were watching Kylie's mother.
A cold, lethal clarity settled over my chest. The man with the weighted briefcase wasn't an assassin sent by my Chicago rivals to hit me. He was part of a recovery squad sent by Marcus Vance—the ruthless boss of Vanguard Logistics, a dirty syndicate firm that specialized in tracking people who didn't want to be found.
Kylie's mother wasn't just a romance writer trying to pitch a book in San Francisco. She was running.
My finger hovered over my phone. I didn't press the button to confirm the Chicago deal. Instead, I opened a dark-web encrypted channel and typed a single command to Marco:
CANCEL CHICAGO DEAL. EXECUTE PROTOCOL OMEGA. SECURE TERMINAL B RESTROOM.
The response from Marco was instantaneous, filled with shocked hesitation: Boss, that deal funds the winter payroll. Are you sure?
DO IT NOW, I typed back.
I slid my phone into my breast pocket, stood up, and extended my hand down to Kylie.
"Come on, Kylie," I said, offering her a calm, steady smile. "Let's go find your mom."
Kylie looked at my outstretched hand, then up into my eyes. She didn't hesitate. She placed her small, warm palm in mine, grabbing her faded backpack with her other hand.
"Are we going to be detectives?" she asked, her brown eyes shining with excitement as she skipped along beside me.
"Something like that," I murmured, my eyes scanning the crowd, tracking the man with the briefcase as he turned into our concourse. "Just stay close to me, and don't let go of my hand."
As we walked past the book shop, the man in the dark trench coat stepped out from the magazine rack, moving directly into our path. His right hand dipped into his coat pocket, his knuckles white around the grip of a concealed weapon.
Before he could pull it, Marco materialized from the crowd like a ghost.
With terrifying, silent efficiency, Marco stepped beside the operative, drove his elbow into the man’s solar plexus, caught his falling body before it hit the floor, and dragged him backward into an employee utility closet, locking the door behind them in less than three seconds.
Not a single traveler in Terminal B noticed a thing.
Kylie didn't see it either—she was busy looking at a plush toy display in a gift shop window.
We reached the entrance of the restroom corridor. The door pushed open, and a woman stepped out, stumbling slightly, her face pale as death, her eyes wild with terror.
She wore a worn beige trench coat, her dark hair pulled back into a hasty bun, holding a battered leather laptop bag against her chest like a shield.
"Mommy!" Kylie squealed, letting go of my hand and running forward.
The woman caught the little girl, falling to her knees on the polished floor, wrapping her arms around Kylie so tightly I could hear her ragged, terrified gasps for air.
"Kylie... oh god, Kylie," the woman sobbed into her daughter's neck.
Then, she raised her head.
Her dark, intelligent eyes met mine. She saw my dark suit, my posture, and the subtle bulge of the leather shoulder holster beneath my jacket. She recognized the predator in me instantly.
"Who are you?" she whispered, backing up against the wall, pulling Kylie behind her. "What do you want from us?"
May you like
I stepped into the corridor, standing between her and the main terminal crowd, my body blocking the line of sight for the second operative with the briefcase.
"My name is Frederick," I said quietly. "And if you want to make that meeting in San Francisco, you need to come with me right now."
