"It... it marked the primary traveler profile as an authorized administrative delegation," Brenda read from the screen, her voice barely audible over the terminal chatter. "The note says: 'Traveler David Miller replaced by special counsel Nathan Cole due to emergency division restructuring. Original credentials transferred by executive authority.'"
"Nathan Cole," I repeated, the name tasting like ash in my mouth.
Nathan Cole was not an auditor. He was Ardent Logistics' chief regulatory fixer, an attorney who spent the last three years keeping sixty-ton regional cargo freighters in the air despite cracked wing spars and forged maintenance logs. Pinned to the man's lapel in 1A had been the silver gear tie bar of Ardent Logistics. Julian Vance hadn't just bypassed the gate—he had handed my identity, my seat, and my legal standing to the very company my audit was meant to dismantle.
My cell phone vibrated violently against my hip. I reached into my coat pocket, keeping my movements deliberate so Diaz wouldn't flinch. The screen displayed Julian Vance's direct office line.
I answered and pressed the speaker button, holding the phone flat above Brenda’s keyboard so both officers could hear.
"David," Vance said, his voice smooth, warm, and entirely devoid of panic. "I assume you’re still standing at Gate B12 making a spectacle of yourself."
"You put Nathan Cole in my seat," I said, staring at the green screen. "You used your state override to hand an Ardent lobbyist my federal docket clearance."
A dry chuckle came through the small speaker. "Nathan is a member of the state bar, David. He understands the broader economic reality of our transportation network. Your audit would have grounded forty percent of the state's commercial freight fleet by daybreak. The governor's office cannot afford twelve cargo carriers declaring bankruptcy during an election quarter."
"Those carriers are flying airframes with documented metal fatigue," I said. "Three of those freighters failed non-destructive ultrasound tests last Tuesday. If they stay in the air, a stabilizer is going to shear off over a populated corridor."
"Which is precisely why Nathan Cole is carrying an amended, verified compliance agreement to the federal clerk in Chicago," Vance replied, his tone chilling into pure authority. "He has an executed settlement signed by the board. By eight-fifteen tomorrow, the litigation will be permanently closed, and the carriers will operate under voluntary remediation."
"He doesn't have the certified logs," I said, my fingers tightening on the canvas handle of my bag. "I have the original physical inspection records right here in my hand. Without the state seal on the master binder, his settlement filing is void on its face."
There was a brief, deliberate pause on the other end of the line.
"Check your department email, David," Vance said quietly.
I shifted the phone to my left hand and unlocked the state network app on the screen. A high-priority memorandum sat at the top of my inbox, stamped at 4:30 PM. It was an emergency administrative suspension citing me for gross insubordination and suspected theft of proprietary inspection records.
At that exact second, Diaz’s shoulder radio crackled to life with a burst of static from terminal dispatch.
"Unit Four-Baker, be advised. We have a priority property complaint coming out of the executive terminal. Regional Transit Board reports an employee named David Miller in possession of stolen state evidentiary materials. Complainant requests immediate detention and confiscation of all physical files."
Diaz looked up from the radio, his hand dropping directly to the snap of his baton holster. "Step away from the counter, sir. Put the briefcase on the floor right now."
I looked at Thorne, then at the empty gate door where Flight 418 had already rolled away into the winter dark. The trap was complete: if I gave up the bag, Vance's legal team would impound it in a corporate evidence locker until the Chicago court closed. If I ran, I was a fleeing felon. Silence, compliance, or waiting for an internal review would guarantee that twelve unsafe planes remained in the sky, and my name would be stamped on the paperwork that let them fly.
I pulled the briefcase tight against my ribs, took half a step back, and locked eyes with Officer Thorne. "I am not surrendering this case to anyone below the rank of a sworn district magistrate. Call your precinct captain, Officer. Because we are going to the Port Authority station right now."
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED