Chapter 36 - Cruising Altitude
The climb out of New York was violent. A late-autumn squall battered the massive wings of Flight 01, sending shuddering tremors through the composite airframe. Yet inside First Class, neither of us moved. The tension between Seat 1A and Seat 1B was heavier than the atmospheric pressure outside.
At 36,000 feet, the chime sounded, signaling we had leveled off. The cabin lights shifted from indigo to a cold, sterile white.
A flight attendant entered from the forward galley, pushing a polished silver service trolley. Her face was completely devoid of emotion—a porcelain doll trained not to react to the presence of armed operatives standing against the bulkhead.
"Champagne, Miss Vance?" the attendant asked, stopping beside Victoria.
"A glass of the '96 Krug," Victoria said, not taking her eyes off me. "And bring my stepdaughter a bottle of tap water. She’s used to the back of the bus, after all. Old habits die hard."
The attendant hesitated, her eyes flickering toward me with a mixture of terror and deference.
"She doesn't serve you, Victoria," I said, keeping my gaze locked on the older woman. "She serves Northstar."
I turned my head toward the attendant. "What is your name?"
"Clara, ma'am," the woman whispered.
"Clara, who cleared the passenger manifest for this cabin prior to pushback?"
Before Clara could answer, the lead tactical operative stepped forward from the galley curtain. He was tall, thick-necked, with a scarred jawline and cold, pale eyes. He rested a heavy palm on the edge of the service trolley.
"The manifest is sealed by Apex Command, Miss Vance," the man said in a flat Eastern European accent. "Our instructions are to ensure no communication leaves this cabin until we cross the Bering Strait."
"Is that so, Commander?" I leaned back into the leather headrest, crossing my legs with calculated poise. "And whose authority do you take orders from when Apex Command’s bank accounts are frozen?"
The operative didn't blink. "Our retainers are paid in physical sovereign bullion, stored in Zurich. Your corporate takeovers don't reach us."
Victoria laughed softly, taking a sip from the flute the attendant had set down. "Did you really think a few SEC filings could starve the wolves, Emily? Your father taught you how to read balance sheets. He forgot to teach you how the real world exercises power. You have stock certificates. I have six men with suppressed sidearms and an autopilot hardwired to an encrypted beacon."
"You talk too much when you're nervous, Victoria," I countered. "You always did. You chattered like a magpie every time you stole my mother’s jewelry, trying to convince the house staff that it was an heirloom from your family. But your hands were shaking then. And they’re shaking now."
Victoria’s grip tightened on the crystal flute until her knuckles turned bone-white.
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Suddenly, my earpiece crackled with static, Marcus’s voice breaking through the electronic jamming: *"Emily... can you hear me? The autopilot... it’s not routing to Singapore. They’ve locked the primary navigational computers. You’re heading north. Toward the Arctic Circle."*
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