A map of Paris.
Flight aggregator.
“Come on,” Marcus muttered, clicking through.
The last tab loaded slowly—then resolved into an airline confirmation page.
Boston Logan → Paris Charles de Gaulle
Departure: 14:45
Boarding: 14:00
Passenger: NATHAN THOMAS WEBB
Kate checked her watch: 13:36.
“Shit,” she said, breath tightening.“He’s going to Logan.”
Marcus was already on the radio again.“Control, upgrade APB to urgent.Suspect is attempting international flight.Repeat: international flight.Notify TSA and airport PD—hold all outbound access for Webb.Send his picture to every gate.”
Kate snapped the monitor off and headed for the door.
Marcus jogged after her.“Traffic’s going to be a nightmare.”
“Then we’ll make it worse,” Kate said.
May sunlight poured through the hallway windows as they ran, hot and bright and oblivious.
They didn’t have an hour.
They barely had half that.
Webb was already on his way to the airport.
And they were going to have to catch him before he vanished above the Atlantic.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Boston Logan was a midday furnace of glass and motion—sunlight pouring through the high atrium windows, bouncing off steel fittings, dazzling the eyes of hurried travelers.Kate and Marcus burst through the sliding doors at 14:06, breathless, over-caffeinated, and running on the kind of adrenaline that made the world sharpen at the edges.
A TSA supervisor jogged up to meet them, badge swinging on a blue lanyard.“Agents Valentine and Reid?”
Kate flashed her credentials.“Status on Webb?”
“No visual yet,” the supervisor said.“But we’ve confirmed he cleared security at Terminal E at 13:48.Last scanner ping was Gate E9.After that—nothing.”
Kate swore under her breath.
Marcus scanned the departures board.“E9… his flight boards from E16.He’s close.”
Kate nodded.“We split.You take the right side of the concourse.I’ll sweep the gates.He’ll be trying to stay near the boarding lane but out of direct sight.”
Marcus squeezed her arm once—a fleeting, wordlessbe careful—then veered off into the crowd.
Kate strode down the E concourse, weaving through families dragging suitcases, business travelers tapping phones, tourists arguing about directions.The air smelled of jet fuel, cinnamon pretzels, nervous sweat.
Her eyes flicked across faces: tall, short, anxious, bored—
