Page 11 of Final Approach

I took another cleansing breath, although this time it was through the tight clench of my teeth. “Give me two seats, then. Please,” I added tersely, cursing this stupid wrinkle in my schedule.

“Absolutely, senhor.” Her head bobbed too enthusiastically for a woman who’d just given me shitty-ass news. “Two seats. And we will give you complimentary access to our airport hotel for the evening.”

Great. A mid-range hotel with polyester bedding and a complimentary sawdust bagel for breakfast. Sighing, I dipped my head to acknowledge the mediocre compromise. I didn’t have the time or the energy to get a room anywhere else, not to mention I could use the discount.

Thirty minutes later, I entered the small room, the sharp scent of lilac-scented detergent forcing a grimace. Fucking fantastic. Now I’d have a headache the rest of the night, too.

A scalding shower couldn’t take the stress of the day away, but I gave it my best, scouring every inch of my skin with the fresh natural sponge I’d packed and brutally massaging shampoo and conditioner into the long black strands of my hair. Rubbed and raw, I air-dried in front of the backlit mirror, my movements on autopilot as I reached for the gold band on the rim of the sink.

The gold band that wasn’t there. The gold band that wasn’t there because Theresa threw hers at my head last August, and it had taken until December for me to take mine off, too. Only a few months later, and I still felt its phantom against my finger.

Staring into the mirror, I squinted hard at the man who defiantly glared back at me. At surface level, I looked fine. More than.

Standard height, honed muscle from years of relentless routine, well-groomed, straight teeth. The LED lighting was a sinister asshole — highlighting puffy eyes desperate for a gel pack, sallow skin despite my permanent tan, and the shadow of an aggressive frown line forming between my brows.

Thirty-four going on fifty. I needed to get some fucking sleep.

After ruthlessly rubbing moisturizer into every crack in my veneer, I climbed into the bed. The scratchy fibers clawed at my skin like little micro-bites of pressure. So, no sleep for me, then.

I stared at the stucco ceiling until dawn, thoughts and plans of the Brazilian deal morphing into tiny splinters of hope for the future of my company. For once, I didn’t want to swallow the feeling. I wanted to capture it and lock it in my chest. I had a way out of the mess I’d made, and within a few months, I could look my father in the eye again.

My parents still held shares in Park Industries. My downfall was their dishonor and would steal every hour of work they’d put into their retirement. Ravi’s signature would save us all.

The unfamiliar floaty feeling finally lulled me into closing my eyes, the desperate need for rest consuming me entirely.

I was so close to redemption. I just had to get home first.

2hours before takeoff …

“We have a prisoner on board?”

My eyebrows kissed my hairline as I flipped through the flight manifest in our private lounge, reviewing the list of passengers and weather conditions. Jamie’s cheeky grin shone back at me from the leather chair opposite mine, not bothering to hide his glee.

The basic room only had a couple of chairs and a flat screen television, with a galley washroom and a shower suitable for small children — not women with curves and suspiciously larger breasts — but the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the small airstrip on this side of the airport brought in the mid-afternoon sun and a beautiful view of the Manthiqueira mountain range beyond.

Our plane hadn’t arrived yet, despite it being one hour until boarding, which was unusual. Swallowing my apprehension, I leaned into the distraction of Jamie’s gossip as if it were a lifeline.

“First for everything, right?” My friend and copilot rubbed his hands together like we’d collectively won the lottery. “His handler is a real dick. I spoke with him earlier. Doesn’t want us to serve the guy any meals on the flight, says he only deserves to eat with dogs.”

His Australian accent made it sound more like “deck” than “dick” and I couldn’t stifle my giggle at the imagery.

“Do we know what he did?” Curiosity outweighed my fear. Like America, Brazil’s justice system was rife with racism and inequality. The man—Maddox Torres—could have stolen a fruit basket or murdered his mother and received the same amount of jail time, depending on his connections.

“No idea,” Jamie admitted, his forehead crinkling as he reviewed his own manifest copy. “Maybe all the commercial airlines were booked? It’s not a cheap trip.”

Aileron really was cash-grabbing wherever they could these days. The drunken flight parties, now transporting criminals—what was next?

Jamie and I wouldn’t even be flying together after this run. Our last hurrah because two pilots on a small plane was “an irresponsible use of resources.” I smothered the jagged knife slicing through the muscle tissue of my heart with a healthy dose of denial. We hadn’t spoken about it, and I wasn’t about to ruin the mood with the introduction of reality.

And where was our plane? The clock’s slow ticking on the wall was a significant contrast to the heartbeat in my chest, my anxiety ramping up with each beat. We weren’t going to have enough time for all the proper pre-flight checks.

My forced smile stretched the borders of my lips up into my cheeks, more manic than necessary.

“Deportation … So, he's Mexican?” After a quick fuel stop in Panama City, Mexico was our final destination.

Jamie shrugged a broad shoulder. “Guess so. I’m tempted to give him the best meal we have onboard as a good old ‘fuck you’ to Handler Dick. His name is even Ricardo. Ricardo—Richard—Dick.” He folded his arms across his chest in triumph, clearly pleased with the nickname.

“Handler Deck it is,” I agreed, no longer attempting to hide my smirk. “The best meal we have on board still tastes like cardboard, but it’s probably an improvement over prison food.”