Chapter 2 - The Grounded Runway
The authority of the Steel name was not a suggestion; it was an absolute directive.
Within ninety seconds of my call, Flight 842 to Miami—already pushing back from Gate 17—came to a grinding halt on the tarmac. Outside the terminal windows, flashing amber lights of airport security vehicles swarmed the aircraft, cutting off its path to the runway like a pack of wolves cornering a rabbit.
Inside the terminal, Owen’s small hand tightened around his stuffed bear, his wide blue eyes tracking the flashing lights outside. "Are those for her?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the dull roar of the airport.
"Yes, Owen," I said, my voice dropping into a low, unshakable vow. "Nobody walks away from you two. Not anymore."
I stood up, the full six-foot-four frame that had intimidated corporate boards and cartel leaders alike settling into a rigid, lethal posture. I looked at Marco, my chief of security. "Keep the perimeter tight. No one touches these kids. I'm going to the gate."
"Boss," Marco murmured, his hand resting near his jacket lining. "TSA and the Chicago PD are already boarding the aircraft. They found her in seat 4B."
Through the glass partitions of the jet bridge, the heavy security doors recycled. A few minutes later, two federal marshals emerged, dragging a frantic, disheveled woman between them. Her beige coat was wrinkled, her designer bag swung violently from her shoulder, and her polished, pristine face was distorted with a mixture of ugly rage and sudden, absolute panic.
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"This is an outrage!" she shrieked, her high heels clicking frantically against the linoleum as she tried to pull away from the officers. "I am a private citizen! You can't ground a commercial airliner because of a domestic dispute! My lawyers will ruin all of you!"
Then her eyes found the row of black seats. And then, they found me.
