"Hey!" I shouted, hitting the metal door with the flat of my hand as Holloway shoved it open.
The shredder gave a high-pitched, grinding whine as the teeth grabbed the corner of the document. I lunged past Holloway’s outstretched arm, caught the power cord near the baseboard with my boot, and ripped the two-pronged plug clean out of the wall outlet. The motor died instantly, leaving half of Apollo’s probate custody decree jammed diagonally between the steel cutting teeth.
Vance did not flinch, but his fingers twitched as he released the torn edge. "Officer Holloway, this is a restricted airside workspace. Remove this man immediately."
"Shut the door, Marcus," the man in the orange vest said. His voice was thick with heavy tobacco rasp. His badge read T. Reyes, Ramp Duty Manager. He looked at the pink voucher in Holloway’s hand, then down at the half-shredded document caught in the machine. "What document were you putting through the disposal bin before flight eight-forty-two’s final weight manifest cleared the tower?"
"Expired transit paperwork from a canceled minor reservation," Vance said, his voice entirely steady, his gray eyes fixing on Reyes without blinking. "The uncle failed travel screening. Per operational rule four-zero-two, unverified legal attachments are destroyed to prevent passenger data compromise once the ticket is voided."
"That wasn't an unverified attachment," I said, pointing at the paper lodged in the blades. "That is the certified seal of the Cook County Probate Division. Look at the bottom right margin, Mr. Reyes. My sister appointed me as Apollo’s medical representative because her post-surgical drainage tubes require sterile flushing every six hours. If she stays on that plane without her medical kit, she develops sepsis before midnight."
Reyes walked to the shredder, bent over, and carefully worked the gears backward with his thumb until the torn document pulled free. He smoothed the crumpled cream paper on the metal desk. The gold foil seal of the state court was torn in half, but my name, Apollo’s name, and the hospital discharge signature were entirely intact.
Reyes stared at the paper for five seconds, then turned to the dispatch monitor. He keyed a long, nineteen-digit override string into the keyboard. "Marcus, why does the cargo manifest for eight-forty-two list a unaccompanied cargo release tag under code nine-one-two?"
"Baggage handling error," Vance replied smoothly. "Baggage room entered the code incorrectly during the shift change."
"Code nine-one-two is a private freight release," Reyes said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "It requires an agent's personal PIN to bypass the TSA freight inspection station. Your PIN was logged at eight-eleven this morning. And the consignee isn't Lindbergh Field in San Diego. It's Gregory Vance Transport, Dock Four, Sky Harbor."
Reyes hit the intercom button on his desk console. "Tower dispatch, this is Ramp Manager Reyes. I have an active flight manifest irregularity on Flight eight-forty-two. Hold regional handoff. Do not clear the flight past initial altitude."
A crackle came through the speaker: Flight eight-forty-two is currently climbing through fourteen thousand feet, passing through sector four. Diverting an active aircraft requires central air traffic control coordination and airline operations director sign-off.
"He knows Dallas won't divert a full Boeing seven-thirty-seven over a seat dispute," Vance said, stepping away from the desk toward the coat rack where his jacket hung. His posture was still rigid, his expression indifferent to the radio chatter filling the room. "The passenger is on the aircraft. Her luggage is in the forward cargo compartment. Her routing is automated. In three hours and forty minutes, she lands in Phoenix for a scheduled operational maintenance layover. Everything was submitted through the regional network."
"It wasn't an operational layover," I said, stepping between Vance and the coat rack. "You filed a spurious cargo transfer to force a layover in Arizona so your brother could take possession of her baggage and her person before we ever landed in California. You knew my sister’s medical estate had a ninety-thousand-dollar wrongful death payout pending against your brother's private transport firm for the clinic fire in May."
The room went dead quiet. Even the conveyor hum outside the glass partition seemed to fade beneath the low hiss of the air vents.
Vance’s hand, reaching for his blazer, froze mid-air. For the first time all morning, the measured corporate mask slipped, revealing the raw, venomous knot beneath it. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle bulged against his ear.
"She doesn't have the legal capacity to settle that claim," Vance whispered, his tone dropping below the level of the radio speaker. "You do. And if you weren't on that plane to sign the transfer papers at San Diego, the court would have dismissed the proceeding for abandonment at five o'clock today."
Reyes didn't wait for Vance to finish. He reached across the desk, pulled the red emergency phone from its cradle, and dialed the three-digit direct line to the Chicago airport police command post. "Desk Sergeant, send two armed units to Ramp Operations Bay B immediately. I have a ground operations supervisor tampering with passenger manifests and a minor passenger in transit under falsified dispatch routing."