Page 6 of Mile High Ruin

“Then perhaps it should not have remained there while passengers were boarding.”

The correction is accurate. I dislike him immediately for delivering it as though my presence aboard his aircraft is evidence of institutional decline.

“You’re right,” I say.

His eyes narrow slightly. Perhaps he expected defensiveness.

Perhaps he mistakes calmness for indifference.

I step forward and lift the bag. He remains in my path for half a second longer than necessary. Up close, he’s even more imposing. There are fine lines at the corners of his eyes and a faint scent on his skin, cedar and smoke, expensive without being sweet.

I wait. I won’t squeeze past him.

Eventually, he steps aside.

“Thank you,” I say. The courtesy is deliberate.

His gaze follows me as I walk past. I carry the bag to the crew compartment, slide it into the assigned storage slot, and fasten the latch. Then I check it twice.

When I return, the passengers have moved into the main cabin. The large man has chosen a seat facing the entrance. The younger one stands near the rear corridor, speaking quietly into a phone in Russian. The man with the portfolio is arranging documents across the dining table.

The silver-haired man sits alone in the largest armchair. His coat is gone now, and one forearm rests against the chair. A heavy watch circles his wrist, understated enough to be worth a small house. He speaks quietly to the man with the portfolio without looking in my direction.

Warren has retreated into the cockpit, the door closed behind him.

At least the silver-haired tyrant has accomplished one useful thing since arriving.

Camille enters the galley after taking the passengers’ coats. “Why was your bag there?” she asks softly. There’s no anger in her voice, but there is tension.

“I put it down when you asked me to check the bar.”

“You should have stored it first.”

“I know.”

“He notices everything.”

“So I gathered.”

She lowers her voice. “Don’t become flippant with him.”

“I wasn’t flippant.”

“You looked him directly in the eye.”

“I was speaking to him.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

I turn toward her. “What exactly are you warning me about?”

Camille glances through the opening toward the cabin. “That man owns this aircraft, the company managing it, and several businesses large enough to make the agency disappear if he chooses. He expects things to be correct.”

She studies my face, perhaps searching for panic or embarrassment.

I feel embarrassed. I simply don’t see the benefit of displaying it.

“I don’t repeat mistakes,” I tell her.