Chapter 2 - THE FIRST CRACK
The guard’s name was Marcus.
Ethan learned that later.
Right then he was just the wall between him and the aisle, holding the puckered foil pouch he’d pulled from a bag that seemed to contain things no normal security guard carried.
The disc went in.
The pouch disappeared into Marcus’s jacket.
“Tracker,” he said.
“From my system?” the father asked.
“No.”
“Then whose?”
Marcus turned the disc over in his fingers before putting it away.
“No manufacturer mark. Not commercial. Somebody built this.”
Ethan stepped backward toward the curtain.
The baby’s crying had changed.
Still upset.
But thinner.
Like something running out.
The father looked down at his son, then toward Marcus’s jacket, then at Ethan.
“You said you’ve seen one.”
“I think so.”
“Where?”
Ethan looked through the curtain toward premium economy.
Maya was still asleep, rabbit under her chin, exactly where he had left her.
His whole body answered before his mind did.
Protect her.
Say nothing.
Get back to the seat.
Get to Rome.
The man noticed his silence.
When he spoke again, it wasn’t exactly softer.
Just less like an order.
“Kid.”
“My name is Ethan.”
“Ethan.”
The man glanced toward the curtain.
“Is someone traveling with you?”
“My sister.”
“Your parents?”
Ethan said nothing.
That was enough.
The man’s eyes sharpened.
“How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“Your sister?”
“Three.”
Marcus’s expression changed.
The father stared at Ethan a moment too long.
“You’re flying internationally alone with a three-year-old?”
“We have permission.”
That was technically true.
His mother had signed the travel letter months ago, for a trip that never happened.
It was not permission for this.
The man sat down slowly.
Julian was still restless against his chest, tiny fists opening and closing.
Ethan pointed.
“Take off his jacket.”
The man looked at him.
“What?”
“He’s hot.”
The flight attendant touched the baby’s neck.
“He’s right.”
The father removed the little cashmere jacket.
The shirt underneath was damp.
“Hold him against you,” Ethan said.
“I am holding him.”
“No.”
Ethan shook his head.
“You’re carrying him.”
The man looked almost offended.
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The senator’s newspaper hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
The actress had stopped pretending to sleep.
Then, unbelievably, the billionaire listened.
He opened his suit jacket, shifted the baby higher, and pressed him against his chest instead of cradling him stiffly in one arm.
“Like this?”
Ethan nodded.
“Talk to him.”
“What do I say?”
“Anything.”
Marcus looked away.
Probably because the most frightening man on the aircraft had just gone completely helpless in front of a ten-year-old boy.
The father looked down.
“Julian.”
The baby cried.
“I’m here.”
The cry weakened.
His face changed.
“Julian. I’m here.”
Again.
Slower.
The baby’s fists loosened.
His whole body sagged, the way a knot lets go when someone finally pulls the right end of the string.
Ethan watched.
“Keep going.”
“You’re very bossy for ten.”
“My sister says that too.”
One corner of the man’s mouth moved.
Then Julian turned his face into his father’s shirt, and the crying broke into hiccups—
and then into nothing at all.
Eighty-seven minutes of noise.
Then silence so complete the cabin felt bigger.
The flight attendant pressed a hand to her mouth.
“So he wasn’t hungry.”
“He might be later,” Ethan said. “Right now he was scared. And uncomfortable.”
The father looked toward Marcus’s jacket.
“Because of that?”
“Maybe.”
Marcus shook his head.
“A tracker shouldn’t make a baby scream.”
“No.”
Ethan looked at the blanket.
“Unless it was scratching him.”
The attendant lifted the fabric.
A faint red mark ran along Julian’s side, where the edge of the disc had rubbed against him every time he moved.
The father’s face went cold.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just dangerous.
“Who packed his things?”
Marcus answered.
“Nanny team at the hotel.”
“Who had access?”
“Six people.”
“Get names.”
“Already doing it.”
Ethan backed toward the curtain.
This was exactly what he didn’t want.
Security.
Questions.
Adults noticing him.
“Ethan.”
He stopped.
The father was holding his son now.
Really holding him.
Palm flat.
Breathing slow.
The baby’s ear against his sternum.
“What happened at your house?”
“Nothing.”
“You recognized the tracker.”
“I said I think I did.”
“You ran away four days ago.”
Ethan’s throat closed.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No.”
The man’s eyes moved over Ethan’s borrowed sneakers, the backpack that had once belonged to his mother, and the way his body was angled toward the curtain even now.
“You didn’t have to.”
Then the black disc inside Marcus’s pouch blinked.
Once.
A tiny green light.
Gone as fast as it came.
Marcus stared at it.
“That thing is active.”
The father’s eyes went flat.
“Meaning?”
“It may still be transmitting.”
Ethan stopped breathing.
His kitchen table.
The wood grain.
The cold tile.
He had found the first disc after hearing voices downstairs two days after his mother left, when the house had gone quiet in the wrong way.
A second one beneath the hall cabinet.
Then he had stood at the top of the stairs and listened to his stepfather’s office door.
His stepfather had been arguing with someone through a speaker.
Money.
Addresses.
A child.
Then Maya’s name.
That had been enough to make Ethan pack.
The father was watching Ethan’s face, and whatever he saw there made him stand.
“Ethan. What’s your last name?”
He hesitated.
“Bennett.”
The man froze.
Marcus turned toward him.
“Adrian.”
The man didn’t move.
“Your mother’s name.”
“Rachel.”
Every trace of color left his face.
Marcus said very quietly,
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Ethan’s heart started hammering against his ribs.
“You know her?”
Adrian Vale looked toward the curtain.
Toward Maya.
May you like
Then back at Ethan.
“Yes.”
