Page 5 of Mile High Ruin

He’s large, not only in height but through the shoulders and chest, his black suit cut to accommodate a body built for more than sitting behind a desk. He pauses just inside the aircraft and scans the cabin from front to back. Not curiosity, but assessment. His gaze moves over the exits, the crew, the windows, and the corridor leading to the rear compartment.

Security, I think.

A second man follows. He’s younger, perhaps in his mid-thirties, leaner than the first, with close-cropped dark hair and a short beard. A pale scar cuts through one eyebrow. He carries no visible luggage, though his coat hangs heavily on one side.

The third man is dressed more like an executive than protection, in a charcoal suit and thin black tie. A leather portfolio is tucked beneath one arm. He checks his phone before he has fully entered the cabin.

Then the fourth man steps aboard. The others don’t visibly move aside for him, but they don’t need to. The hierarchy is obvious before he even raises his head.

He’s tall and broad through the chest, older than the men accompanying him but not diminished by it. Mid-forties, perhaps closer to fifty. His hair is entirely silver, thick and cut neatly away from his face, not the soft gray of age but a cold metallic shade that catches beneath the cabin lights. His overcoat is black. The suit underneath is darker still, fitted without looking fashionable. He wears no tie, and the first button of his shirt is open at the throat.

His face is severe. Strong nose. Hard mouth. A faint line between his brows that looks permanent rather than momentary. There’s a small scar near his jaw, almost hidden beneath the shadow of evening stubble. He’s not handsome in the polished, forgettable way wealthy men often are.

He is arresting.

The entire cabin seems to reorganize itself around his presence. Even the three men with him appear more alert now that he has boarded.

His pale gaze crosses the cabin and lands on Warren. More specifically, on the way Warren is standing over me. He takes in the hand braced beside my shoulder, the lack of space between us, and my expression.

“Is there a problem with the cockpit, Captain?” His voice is low and heavily accented.

Warren straightens at once. “No, sir.”

“Then why are you not in it?” Nothing in the man’s tone rises, but the question lands like an order.

Warren’s hand drops from the counter. “I was just briefing the new attendant.”

The silver-haired man looks at me, then back at Warren. “She appears to understand where she is.”

For the first time since I met Warren, he has nothing to say. He takes two quick steps backward. “Of course, sir. Welcome aboard.”

He turns and retreats toward the cockpit, and I experience one brief, unexpected wave of gratitude toward the stranger who made him scuttle away with a single sentence.

It lasts perhaps three seconds.

The silver-haired man’s gaze shifts downward, to my bag, sitting beside the galley wall. “Why is that there?” He doesn’t address me directly. He looks at Camille.

She follows his gaze, and her face changes immediately. “It should not be, sir.”

He looks at the bag again, then at me. “Does the crew normally leave unsecured items in the cabin?”

His tone is not loud. That makes it worse.

The other men remain silent.

I could apologize profusely. I could blame the rushed preparation or explain that I was about to move it. Neither would change the fact that it is still sitting there.

“It’s mine,” I say. “I placed it there while preparing the cabin. I’ll secure it now.”

His attention settles on me fully. There’s no warmth in it, but there is interest. Too much of it. “You intended to secure it before departure?”

“Yes.”

“How fortunate.”

The words are mild. The contempt beneath them is not.

My spine stiffens, though my expression stays composed. “It would not have remained there during taxi or takeoff.”