The decision settled into me somewhere between Marfa and the interstate—quiet and certain, like my body had decided before my brain caught up. Three weeks of nothing stretched ahead of me either way. Might as well spend them somewhere that wasn't haunted by everything I couldn't fix.
Long-term parking swallowed my truck into its concrete anonymity, rows of vehicles baking under the sun, heat shimmering off windshields and hoods. I grabbed my duffel from the bed—always packed, always ready, habits from a life that didn’t allow for hesitation—and walked toward the terminal, gravel crunching under my boots.
The main concourse buzzed with the usual chaos. Families dragging luggage and crying children, businessmen moving with practiced efficiency, phones pressed to their ears like lifelines.The smell of overpriced coffee and recycled air, underlying notes of jet fuel and human exhaustion. I pulled up the email on my phone, expecting gate numbers and boarding times.
Instead, I got an address.
Executive Aviation Services. East Terminal.
I stared at the screen, reading it twice to make sure I hadn't misunderstood.
Not a commercial flight, then.
The woman at the main ticket counter barely glanced at me when I asked for directions, her attention already drifting to the next person in line. "East terminal," she said, pointing toward a corridor I'd never noticed before. "Follow the signs for private aviation."
The hallway was quieter. Cleaner. The lighting shifted from harsh fluorescent to something warmer, more deliberate. Fewer people. Different kind of people—the ones who moved through airports like they owned them because, in some fundamental way, they did. Tailored suits. Expensive luggage. Confidence that didn't need to announce itself.
The private terminal was smaller than I expected. Understated. No crowds, no chaos, just a sleek desk made of dark wood and a woman behind it who looked up as I approached, her expression neutral and professional.
"Hello," she said, her smile practiced but genuine enough. "Name?"
"Wyatt Dane."
She glanced at her screen, fingers moving across the keyboard with quick precision. Something flickered in her expression—recognition, maybe. Or confirmation that I was expected, that my name carried weight here, even if I didn't understand why.
"Yes, Mr. Dane. We've been expecting you." She handed me a slim folder, the paper thick and expensive between my fingers."Your flight is being prepped now. The pilot will be ready for departure in approximately fifteen minutes. There's a lounge through those doors if you'd like to wait."
I took the folder, turning it over in my hands. Heavy stock. Embossed logo I didn't recognize—geometric, modern, deliberate. "Thanks."
"Our pleasure," she said, already turning back to her screen like this was routine. Like private jets and mysterious invitations were just another day.
I pushed through the doors into the lounge.
It was nice. Not over-the-top—no gold fixtures or marble columns trying too hard to impress—but nice in the way that whispered money without shouting it. Leather chairs arranged in small clusters around low tables. Soft lighting that made everything feel intimate instead of clinical. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the tarmac where private jets sat gleaming under floodlights, their white bodies reflecting artificial glow like promises of escape.
A hostess appeared almost immediately, materializing from somewhere I hadn't noticed, her smile warm and practiced in equal measure. "Mr. Dane, welcome. Can I get you anything from the back bar?"
I paused, the question landing strangely. "Back bar?"
Her smile widened slightly, like I'd asked exactly the right question. "Yes, sir. The back bar and its sundries are reserved for special guests."
Special guests.
I studied her for a moment, trying to read what that meant. She gave nothing away—posture relaxed, expression pleasant, waiting patiently for my answer like she had all night.
"Whiskey," I said. "Neat."
"Of course. I'll be right back."
She disappeared through a doorway I hadn't noticed, leaving me standing there alone with my questions multiplying.
I moved to the windows, watching ground crews move around the jets with choreographed efficiency. Everything precise. Everything intentional. No wasted movement. A fuel truck pulled up to one of the smaller planes. A crew member inspected the landing gear. Another checked something on a tablet, fingers swiping across the screen with the confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
Whoever Micah worked for, they had resources. The kind that didn't show up on org charts or in public records. The kind that moved in shadows and called it business.
The hostess returned carrying a crystal tumbler filled halfway with amber liquid, the glass catching the light and throwing it back in fractured patterns. In her other hand, a small glass jar—travel-sized, sealed with a metal lid. Cashews.
I stared at the jar, something cold sliding down my spine.
