Chapter 2 - The Altitude Interrogation
The air inside the Boeing 777 felt suddenly thin, as if the pressurization had failed at thirty-six thousand feet.
Vincent Moretti did not blink. His eyes, an unreadable slate gray, stayed fixed on the miniature circuit disc balanced between his knuckles. The tiny red LED on its underside pulsed once every three seconds—a heartbeat of malicious intent.
"You found one of these under your kitchen table?" Vincent’s voice was remarkably quiet, yet it carried an edge that silenced the entire first-class cabin.
"Four days ago," I whispered, keeping my posture rigid. I was ten years old, wearing sneakers with frayed laces and an oversized blue hoodie, but I knew better than to flinch. When you grow up in a third-floor walk-up in South Brooklyn, you learn early that showing fear is an invitation for wolves. "My mother was crying on the phone. She whispered that the walls had ears. After she hung up, she swept the apartment with a little wand that buzzed. She found the disc stuck underneath the wood near the radiator. The next morning, her bed wasn't slept in. Her car was gone. There was only an envelope with five hundred dollars and a train ticket to Chicago."
The man who had blocked my path earlier—a hulking mountain of muscle named Franco, judging by the name embroidered inside his tailored coat—shifted his weight, his hand resting instinctively near the holster beneath his armpit.
"Boss," Franco murmured, his gaze darting toward the flight attendants huddled in the galley. "If the kid isn't lying, that’s not just a tracker. That’s a directional audio-relay. High-end military grade. The kind Julian Vance’s crew buys out of Eastern Europe."
At the mention of Vance, a dark shadow passed over Vincent’s face. He looked down at his infant son.
The baby had stopped shrieking, reduced now to ragged, wet hiccups against his father’s chest. The removal of the sharp, vibrating disc from against his tiny ribs had instantly eased his pain. Little Leo’s round, tear-streaked face nuzzled into the fine cashmere of Vincent’s shirt, seeking shelter.
"What is your mother's name, Leah?" Vincent asked.
"Dr. Eleanor Ward," I answered plainly. "She’s a data analyst. She works for the municipal port authority."
Vincent’s breath hitched—just a fraction of a second, but I caught it. A man like Vincent Moretti didn’t show surprise unless a tectonic plate had shifted beneath his feet.
"Eleanor," he said slowly, testing the name on his tongue. "The woman who flagged the anomalous container manifests at Red Hook last Tuesday."
"She said someone was smuggling ghost cargo," I whispered, remembering the late-night murmurs through my bedroom wall. "She said people were going to die if she didn't blow the whistle."
Vincent looked up from his son, staring at me with terrifying intensity. "She didn't just blow a whistle, kid. She walked straight into a war between me and the most ruthless cartel on the Atlantic seaboard. And whoever put this device on my son boarded this plane with us at JFK."
A chill ran down my spine.
"Franco," Vincent commanded without looking away from me. "Nobody leaves their seats. Tell the captain we have a security breach. If anyone touches a phone or moves toward the lavatory, put them down."
"Understood, Boss."
Vincent stood up, cradling his baby with the practiced tenderness of an ordinary father, contrasting violently with the lethal aura surrounding him. He walked past the curtain into the main cabin and stopped at row fourteen, where Maya lay curled up, clutching Barnaby, her threadbare stuffed rabbit.
"That your sister?" he asked.
"Maya. She's three."
Vincent studied her peaceful face, then looked down at his own son. "She has your eyes. Alert. Survival eyes." He turned to Franco. "Move them both up here. First class. Clear row one. If anyone breathes in their direction, make them regret it."
"Wait," I protested, stepping between him and Maya. "We don't need charity. We just need to get to Chicago. Our Aunt Celia is meeting us at the terminal."
Vincent offered a sad, ruthless smirk that made my stomach drop. "Leah, if Vance’s people bugged your apartment four days ago, do you really believe your Aunt Celia is waiting for you in Chicago?"
My breath caught in my throat. The reality of my mother’s frantic goodbye suddenly took on a sickening new shape.
May you like
"They didn't chase you out of New York, little girl," Vincent said gently, the coldness vanishing from his eyes for a split second. "They herded you. And if you hadn't walked across that aisle to save my son, you and your sister would have walked straight into an abattoir at O'Hare."
***
