For a moment, all the noise drops out. My first thought is that it can’t be real. I spent the whole flight watching for his move, expecting to have to dodge some crude threat, some trap, someugly confrontation. Not this. Not him, so lifeless, so utterly finished.
I step closer, ignoring the way the crew is trying to hide the body, and kneel down to see for myself. There’s no doubt. It’s Kirov. The same scar across his cheek, the heavy signet ring on his hand, now limp in his lap.
I scan the scene, heart thumping. I spot the unfinished flute of champagne.
He was poisoned, there’s no doubt about that.
I glance up, meeting the eyes of a flight attendant. “Was anyone sitting near him?”
She shakes her head, voice trembling. “No one. He boarded late. Kept to himself. I only realized something was wrong when he didn’t respond at meal service.”
I’m about to turn away when I catch a glance—a quick flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. One of the hostesses is watching me, not just with the frazzled nerves of someone who’s seen too much, but with something sharper. Suspicion. She’s not the same young woman who let me through the curtain. This one is older, around my age, brown hair turning gray, calm and collected with her lips pressed tight. She’s holding a tray, pretending to fuss with empty glasses, but she’s not looking at her hands—she’s looking at me.
I remember her vaguely from before, when Kirov and I got into that confrontation in the lounge downstairs. She was there, she saw everything, saw the way I punched him. She had paused, watched the exchange between us, her gaze flicking from his face to mine, taking it all in. She looked away quickly, but not beforeI saw something pass between her and Kirov. A subtle nod, nothing most would notice.
Shit. That can’t be good.
My mind starts to race. Was she with him? Crew, but not really? Or maybe just a witness, already putting together a story that doesn’t end well for me. Either way, she’s marked me now, her eyes cool and assessing. I hold her gaze for a beat, letting her know I’ve seen her watching, then look away, trying to play it casual.
The last thing I need is to get locked in an airplane bathroom with security when there’s a murderer still moving around. Or worse—if she’s got something to hide, if she’s more than just a bystander—she could make sure the whole thing points at me.
I feel the old pressure settling on my shoulders. Too many unknowns, not enough time. I slide my phone out, even though it won’t get a signal up here, and pretend to scroll. Anything to look busy. Anything to keep her from seeing I’m rattled.
As I turn away, I throw one last glance back at the hostess. She’s watching, all right. And she’s not afraid.
“We have a problem,” I murmur to Nikolai, trying to keep my voice low.
“Who?”
“The brunette. Three o’clock,” I say. Nikolai doesn’t turn around to see her, not yet. “I saw her when I confronted Kirov by the lounge. She’s still at it.”
Nikolai follows my gaze, casual as ever, but his posture shifts, just a little. “You think she’s part of it?”
“I don’t know. But she’s too calm for a woman working her first murder scene.”
He nods, not needing more.
“But if she talks to airport police first, that’s a problem. I need the lounge footage clean before anyone else gets their hands on it.”
Now he looks at me, turning his head slightly. “Clean as in scrubbed?”
“Yes.”
He shifts his weight, considering. “The lounge cameras save to a local server before they sync to the cloud. There’s a window. Twenty minutes, maybe. After that, airport security will lock everything down.”
“Then we don’t have twenty minutes,” I say. “We have less. Someone has to wipe it before they even think to check.”
Nikolai gives a short nod, already running through options. “I know a guy who works ground-side at this airport. Night crew supervisor. He owes me a favor.”
I arch a brow. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He smirks. “Point is, I can reach him. He has access to those servers. He can pull the footage and delete it before it uploads anywhere else. But I need signal. And I need him to pick up.”
“Make it happen,” I say.
“Bribe or threat?” he asks dryly.
“Whatever gets it done without noise.”
