PART TWO — THE MAN BEHIND EVAN
I zoomed in on the photograph.
The man standing behind Evan was almost impossible to see.
Almost.
But I recognized the jacket.
Black.
No logo.
No identification.
And on his left wrist was a silver watch with a broken crystal.
I had seen that watch before.
My hands went cold.
“Impossible.”
I opened the classified investigation files from my secure phone.
Six months earlier, during the Meridian Air audit, one name had appeared repeatedly in encrypted maintenance communications.
Victor Hale.
Former FAA systems engineer.
Officially, Victor Hale had died in a car accident four years ago.
But the photograph showed him standing alive inside a Meridian Air hangar.
I immediately called my federal contact.
“Run Victor Hale.”
Silence.
Then:
“Amara… where did you get that name?”
“Just answer me.”
Another pause.
“We ran him six months ago.”
“And?”
“He doesn’t exist.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean he doesn’t exist?”
“His federal employment records were erased.”
My stomach tightened.
“By whom?”
“We don’t know.”
Then the secure line went dead.
Someone had cut the connection.
I looked around the terminal.
Nothing seemed unusual.
Families were boarding flights.
Business travelers were drinking coffee.
Children were running between gates.
Then I noticed a man standing beside a newspaper kiosk.
Black jacket.
Silver watch.
Broken crystal.
I stopped breathing.
He looked directly at me.
Then smiled.
And walked away.
I ran.
I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the confused passengers around me.
“Stop!”
The man disappeared through a service door.
I reached it seconds later.
Locked.
I pulled out my federal credentials.
“Open this door!”
The airport security officer rushed over.
“Ma’am, what’s happening?”
“Open it.”
He unlocked the door.
We entered the service corridor.
Empty.
Except for one thing.
A small black envelope lay on the floor.
My name was written across it.
DR. AMARA ELLISON
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Not of Victor.
Not of Evan.
It was a photograph of me.
Taken from across the terminal only minutes earlier.
On the back, someone had written:
YOU FOUND THE WRONG MAN.
Then my secure phone vibrated.
One message.
FLIGHT 417 — GATE 22.
I checked the departure board.
Flight 417 was scheduled to leave in twelve minutes.
Destination:
Washington, D.C.
I immediately understood.
Someone wanted me on that aircraft.
I turned to the security officer.
“Evacuate Gate 22.”
He stared at me.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
He hesitated.
Then the airport alarm began screaming.
Every screen in the terminal went black.
A message appeared across them simultaneously.
WELCOME BACK, DR. ELLISON.
Passengers began screaming.
The lights went out.
Emergency lighting flashed red.
Then I heard a familiar voice over the airport speakers.
Victor Hale.
“You wanted to know who controls the system?”
I looked up.
His voice continued.
“Look at the aircraft.”
Through the enormous terminal windows, I could see Flight 417 beginning to move.
But there was one problem.
There was no pilot inside.
The aircraft was moving by itself.
I grabbed my phone.
“Call the tower.”
The security officer stared at me.
“They’ve lost communication with the aircraft.”
I looked toward the runway.
Flight 417 accelerated.
Then my phone received one final message.
THIS TIME, YOU HAVE SEVEN MINUTES.
I looked at the departure board.
Seven minutes until Flight 417 reached the end of the runway.
Seven minutes to stop an aircraft full of passengers.
And somewhere inside the airport…
Victor Hale was watching me.
I tightened my grip on the federal badge.
“Then let’s find him.”
And I ran toward the control tower.
