No one asked for my passport. No one ran my ID. No one cared.
That told me more than anything else.
We weren't in the air five minutes when another crewman appeared, this one holding a tablet like it was the menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
"Dinner, sir," he said. "We have three options tonight. A tomahawk-cut ribeye, pan-seared trout, or hand-stuffed ravioli."
I blinked. Once. Twice.
"Ribeye," I said, because why the hell not.
"Excellent choice." He nodded and disappeared back toward the galley.
I leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at nothing but clouds and twilight, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was being offered steak on a plane. Not freeze-driedmilitary rations. Not protein bars. Not the tasteless shit I'd choked down in safehouses from Kabul to Kinshasa.
Steak.
It arrived faster than seemed possible.
The crewman set the plate in front of me with the kind of reverence you'd expect from someone serving communion. And when I looked down, I understood why.
The ribeye was perfect. Seared crust. Pink center. Charred just enough at the edges to taste like fire and fat and everything good about meat cooked right. A side of home fries—crispy, golden, salted perfectly—sat next to it like they'd been reading my mind.
I cut into it. Medium rare. Exactly how I liked it.
The first bite hit my tongue and I forgot, just for a second, where I was. Who I was. What I'd done.
It was that good.
Better than good.
It was the kind of meal that made you believe someone gave a damn whether you lived or died, even if logic told you that was impossible.
The crewman reappeared as I was halfway through. "Can I get you another drink, sir? Something other than water?"
I looked up. "What do you have?"
His mouth curved, just slightly. "Most things. Top shelf, bottom shelf, everything in between."
I thought about it. Thought about asking for something simple—a beer, maybe, or whiskey neat. But something made me test the boundaries.
"Patriotic bourbon," I said.
His eyebrow went up. Then he smiled, genuine this time. "I have just the thing."
He disappeared again. I finished the steak, savoring every bite, the home fries disappearing just as fast. By the time he came back, my plate was clean.
He set a bottle on the table in front of me.
Purple label. Bold lettering that readFOUR BRANCHES. Underneath, a second label:Honor Reserve.
"Your host is an investor in the company," the crewman said, pouring a healthy draft into a crystal glass. "Friends of the four founders. A limited run. I think you’ll like it."
He handed me the glass and disappeared before I could ask anything else.
I stared at the bourbon for a moment, then lifted it to my lips.
The first sip went down smooth. Then the bite hit—just enough to remind me I was drinking something with teeth. Warmth spread through my chest, settling low in my gut, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I let myself relax.
