Chapter 11 - The Woman Who Knew Too Much
The Gulfstream leveled off at forty-one thousand feet, carving through the thin, icy air above the cloud deck at nearly six hundred miles per hour.
In the quiet of the cabin, the adrenaline that had sustained me for three hours finally began to retreat, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in my temples and a heavy exhaustion in my bones. My bare arms, still stripped of the cardigan, were covered in goosebumps from the plane’s climate control.
The crew chief walked down the aisle and tossed a thick, olive-drab fleece blanket across my lap.
“Coffee’s hot in the galley, ma’am,” he said with a brief nod. “Real stuff, not the powdered sludge.”
“Thank you,” I said, wrapping the wool around my shoulders. “Just water, if you have it.”
He brought back a cold bottle, and as I drank, the cabin’s secure video monitor mounted on the forward bulkhead flickered to life.
The screen displayed a live broadcast from the Port Authority press room back in Ohio.
There, standing behind a cluster of twenty microphones bearing the logos of every major news network in the country, was Special Agent Marcus Cross. Flanking him were the Director of Cleveland Port Security and the Chief of Police.
“...at approximately 10:42 this morning,” Cross’s voice came through the cabin speakers, steady, cold, and clear, “an attempted assassination using an illicit chemical compound was thwarted at Gate C18. The suspect, Gregory Keller, Chief Operating Officer of Apex Bio-Solutions, is currently in federal custody without bail.”
The screen cut to a wide shot of the reporters furiously typing on their laptops, flashbulbs popping in continuous bursts.
“Furthermore,” Cross continued, looking directly into the primary network camera, “the Department of Justice wishes to formally retract and correct misinformation currently circulating on social media regarding a civilian bystander. Nurse Hannah Mercer, an emergency trauma specialist at Lakeside Hospital, acted with heroic clinical precision. Without her immediate, life-saving intervention and her assistance in identifying the toxic agent, the victim would not have survived, and the perpetrator would have escaped federal jurisdiction. She has our full commendation and our deepest institutional gratitude.”
The crew chief let out a low whistle from the jump seat. “Well, damn, ma’am. That beats an employee of the month parking spot.”
I let out a shaky breath, watching the television crawl at the bottom of the screen update in real time:
FBI COMMENDS LAKESIDE ER NURSE FOR THWARTING AIRPORT CHEMICAL ATTACK.
My phone, resting on the armrest, buzzed.
A new message from Dr. Chen:
“Hannah. Watched the briefing. Lakeside is issuing an immediate press release celebrating your actions. Take the full week off. Paid administrative leave. You’re a credit to this department. We’ll talk when you get back.”
I laughed out loud—a short, breathless burst of sound.
Paid leave. Sixteen years of pleading for coverage on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and all it took to get four days off was taking down an international corporate assassin in a TSA line.
Then came the message I had been waiting for.
Paige.
“Hannah. Mom just showed me the news. Marcus Cross’s office called the church wedding coordinator directly to inform them of your flight status. I don't care if you show up in a paper bag. Just get here.”
May you like
Beneath her message was a single photograph: her wedding shoes sitting beside the two champagne glasses from that morning.
Only this time, both glasses were filled.
