Chapter 2 - THE ORDER
The silver-haired executive moved first.
“That is completely false.”
Catherine backed into the galley cart.
“You sent the instruction.”
“I did no such thing.”
David stepped between them before the argument could widen.
“Show me the message.”
Catherine looked down at her tablet.
Her thumb swiped once.
Then again.
The blood drained from her face.
“It was here.”
“Show me.”
“I’m trying.”
The airport manager leaned in.
“What system?”
“Crew Ops.”
Catherine opened the message queue.
Empty.
She opened archived notices.
Empty.
She opened deleted items.
Empty.
The silver-haired executive let out a breath through his nose.
“There. You see?”
Catherine snapped her head up.
“No. It was there five minutes ago.”
“Maybe you misunderstood a seat map update.”
“I read it.”
David’s phone vibrated.
He ignored it.
“What exactly did it say?”
Catherine’s lips parted.
“Passenger 2A must be reseated before pushback. Do not discuss operational reason with passenger.”
A man in 1C lifted his phone higher.
This time no one told him to stop recording.
David held out Malik’s boarding pass.
“Pull his reservation.”
The airport manager took the pass and typed the record locator into his handheld device.
The screen loaded.
Then his eyebrows pulled together.
“That’s strange.”
“What?” David asked.
The manager turned the screen.
Malik Johnson.
Seat 22C.
Malik leaned forward.
“That’s not my seat.”
The manager scanned the printed boarding pass.
2A appeared immediately.
He scanned it again.
Same result.
Two systems.
Two seats.
One child.
David’s jaw tightened.
“When was 22C assigned?”
The manager tapped the record history.
A loading circle spun.
Then froze.
He tapped again.
“Network delay.”
The silver-haired executive reached for the device.
“Let me handle this.”
The manager pulled it back.
“Sir, this is my station access.”
David noticed the executive’s hand stay extended half a second too long.
“What’s your name?” David asked.
The man looked at him.
“Grant Mercer. Vice President, East Coast Operations.”
“And you’re the one she pointed at?”
Mercer gave Catherine a hard look.
“She pointed in our direction. That proves nothing.”
Catherine’s breathing had gone shallow.
“I know what I received.”
“Then produce it.”
The airport manager’s device chimed.
“History loaded.”
Everyone leaned toward the screen.
Malik’s reservation showed a change at 8:41 a.m.
Seat 2A removed.
Seat 22C assigned.
The boarding pass in Malik’s hand had been printed at 8:52.
2A.
David pointed at the times.
“If he was moved at 8:41, why did the gate print 2A eleven minutes later?”
No one answered.
Malik reached over and tapped the corner of his boarding pass.
“What’s this?”
A tiny code sat beneath the barcode.
JX-417.
David’s eyes stopped on it.
He had seen JX prefixes before.
Not on passenger reservations.
Johnson Aerotech used JX codes on restricted aviation-security test programs.
He did not say that out loud.
His phone vibrated again.
This time he checked it.
His chief of staff had sent three messages.
CALL ME NOW.
MESA EXECUTIVE OFFICE ASKED IF YOU WERE AT THE AIRPORT.
THEY CALLED BEFORE YOU CALLED ME.
David locked the screen.
A cold bead of sweat slipped down Mercer’s temple.
David looked at the manager.
“Who had authority to alter this reservation?”
“Gate staff. Customer support. Operations.”
“Executive operations?”
The manager hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Pull the source login.”
Mercer stepped in.
“That information is protected.”
David turned on him.
“You had no problem changing an eleven-year-old’s reservation without telling him. You’re going to have a very difficult time explaining why the person who changed it deserves more privacy than he did.”
Mercer’s mouth opened.
The airport manager tapped again.
A red warning flashed.
ACCESS LOG PURGED.
Catherine made a small sound.
“That’s not normal.”
“No,” the manager said. “It isn’t.”
He opened a backup audit screen.
A single line remained.
SOURCE: MESA CORPORATE OPERATIONS — EXECUTIVE ACCESS.
TIME: 08:41:17.
David leaned closer.
“Can you identify the terminal?”
The manager scrolled.
A location code appeared.
HQ-14.
Mercer took one step back.
The manager looked up.
“This alteration wasn’t made at the airport.”
David’s voice turned flat.
“Where was it made?”
The manager rotated the device.
“Mesa headquarters.”
Then another field populated beneath it.
USER AUTHENTICATION: VERIFIED.
EXECUTIVE CREDENTIAL.
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And beside it, a set of initials began loading one letter at a time—
