Page 1 of Mile High Ruin

1

SLOANE

The call comes at six forty-three in the morning, less than twenty-four hours after I’m officially informed that the airline no longer requires my services.

An impressive phrase, really. It sounds far more dignified than we have decided to protect a wealthy passenger with a recognizable surname instead of the flight attendant he cornered near the rear galley.

I’m awake when the phone rings because I’ve barely slept. My termination letter is still open on the small dining table across from my bed, three pages of carefully selected language explaining that my conduct failed to reflect the values of the company.

The airline’s values, as far as I can tell, involve smiling while being insulted and apologizing when a passenger puts his hands somewhere they don’t belong.

I stare at the unfamiliar number for one ring before answering. “Sloane Mercer.”

The woman on the other end introduces herself as a coordinator from a private aviation staffing agency. She speaks quickly, the way people do when they’re trying to fill a position before someone above them realizes it’s still empty. They need a flight attendant for an international departure from Teterboro that afternoon. It’s a private aircraft, the usual attendant is unavailable, and the assignment could lead to more work if the client is satisfied.

Then she tells me the rate.

I sit up. “What time do you need me there?”

By two in the afternoon, I’m standing inside a private jet that looks more expensive than my entire apartment building, wondering whether the cream carpet beneath my shoes costs more than I made last year.

I’ve worked first class for six years. I’m familiar with polished wood, chilled champagne, handcrafted menus, and passengers who consider eye contact part of the service they purchased.

This is different.

There are no rows of narrow seats or overhead compartments packed with luggage. The cabin is wide and quiet, furnished in pale leather and dark wood, with pairs of armchairs arranged around low tables. The gold fixtures are subtle rather than gaudy, which only makes them look more expensive. Soft lighting runs beneath the cabinets, and the air smells faintly of leather, cedar, and whatever cleaning product rich people use to make a space appear untouched by human hands.

Toward the rear is a dining area, followed by a closed door that leads to a bedroom.

A bedroom. On an aircraft.

I managed not to react when Camille mentioned it during the walk-through. It took some effort.

Camille Laurent is the senior flight attendant assigned to the aircraft. She’s tall, elegant, and probably somewhere in her late thirties, though she has the kind of composed face that makes guessing her age feel impolite. She has worked private aviation for more than a decade and moves through the jet as though it’s an extension of her own body.

I know how to evacuate two hundred people from a burning aircraft.

At the moment, I can’t find the proper drawer for the linen napkins, but I don’t mention that to Camille.

I’m checking the temperature of the champagne when the pilot enters the galley for the third time.

Captain Warren Hale introduced himself when I arrived. He’s in his early fifties, with carefully maintained dark hair, a deep tan that has never seen honest sunlight, and a wedding ring he keeps rotating around his finger whenever he looks at me.

In the forty minutes since we met, he has asked whether I’m single, whether I live alone, and whether the fitted skirt is part of my personal wardrobe or the agency uniform.

I answered none of those questions.

He leans against the galley entrance now, one shoulder against the frame, taking up more room than necessary. “Settling in?”

“I am.”

His eyes move down the front of my blouse before returning to my face. “First time on a private bird?”

I close the champagne compartment. “Is there something about the cabin preparation that concerns you?”

“No. Everything looks good.”

“Then I assume you’re asking for personal reasons.”