I turned away from Gate B22 and walked toward the customer service spine at the center of Concourse B.
My phone vibrated against my ribs. It was an automated notification from the Midwest Air mobile application: Your reservation has been marked as 'Voluntary Surrender of Seat.' No rebooking fees apply. Voucher balance: $0. 00.
Miller had already covered her tracks in the central customer database, falsifying the electronic record to make it appear as though I had willingly given up our confirmed seats and walked away without demanding compensation. If an external auditor reviewed the gate logs tonight, my name wouldn't show up as an involuntary bump. It would show up as an abandoned ticket.
Except she hadn't accounted for the physical carbon tape in my pocket, or the signature line on the station log.
The station operations door sat between Gates B18 and B20, behind a cipher-locked steel door labeled Authorized Airline Personnel Only. Beside the brass keyway was an intercom speaker and a badge reader.
I pressed the call button.
"Operations, Martinez," a man's voice crackled through the small speaker grille.
"This is David Walker," I said clearly. "I am standing at the B-concourse portal with my daughter. Gate Agent Miller at B22 just manually processed an unauthorized identity swap on Flight 840 using station manager credentials OP-MGR-419. I have the local mechanical spool record in my hand."
Silence hung on the line for four seconds. The hum of the concourse crowd seemed to fade behind us as travelers hauled wheelie bags toward the evening bank of departures.
"Say that supervisor ID again," the voice replied, the casual boredom completely gone.
"OP-MGR-419," I repeated. "Belonging to Station Manager Robert Hayes. You have two minutes to open this door, or I'm taking this ribbon directly to the Transportation Security Administration station supervisor at Checkpoint Three."
A loud electric buzz unlocked the strike plate. The heavy door clicked outward two inches.
"Get inside," the voice said. "Both of you. Right now."
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
His eyes traveled immediately from my grease-smudged sleeve down to Maya’s boots, then settled on the folded carbon strip protruding from my coat pocket.
"Let me see it," Martinez said. He didn't reach across the counter. He kept both hands flat against the laminate surface, fingers spread wide.
I stepped forward, keeping Maya at my side. "Before I hand this over, I want my daughter on the nine o'clock connector out of Terminal 1. She has a critical clinic intake at Seattle Children's Hospital tomorrow morning."
"The morning flight was cancelled due to de-icing delays in Minneapolis," Martinez replied, his voice flat and controlled. "The only aircraft making Seattle before noon tomorrow is the one currently taxiing toward Runway 28 Center. The flight you were just removed from."
Maya’s fingers pressed tighter against the palm of my hand. She didn't whimper, but her breath came fast through her teeth.
"Then call ground control and halt the pushback," I said.
"You don't understand how this works, Mr. Walker," Martinez said. He pulled a heavy ring of keys from his belt, unlocked the security gate beside the counter, and gestured toward a pair of gray vinyl armchairs against the back wall. "Sit your daughter down. If you want this aircraft stopped, you need to understand exactly what that manifest strip represents."
I led Maya to the chairs. I took off my heavy canvas coat, folded it across her lap to keep her warm, and knelt beside her. "I need to talk to this man for three minutes. You watch the clock on that wall, okay? When the red hand goes around three times, we make our next move."