Chapter 2 - The Men in Dark Suits
Franklin lowered Evelyn carefully to the polished floor, cradling her head against his wool sleeve. Her breathing was shallow, her thin frame shivering despite the climate-controlled terminal.
"Someone call an ambulance!" Franklin yelled, his voice cutting through the stunned silence of Gate C-18. "Now!"
Derek, still holding his radio, sneered with nervous disdain. "Sir, step back from her. You’re tampering with a medical incident on airline property. Security, escort this man—"
"Shut your mouth!"
The roar came not from Franklin, but from the front of the three men barreling through the priority boarding stanchions. They moved with the terrifying precision of federal agents, their dark suits sharp, earpieces glowing green beneath their collars. The lead man—tall, silver-haired, with cold steel-blue eyes—shoved past the airport police officer like he wasn't even there.
"Get your hands off her," the lead man commanded, dropping to one knee beside Evelyn. "Mrs. Whitmore. Evelyn, can you hear me? It's Marcus."
Derek froze, his badge dangling loosely from his chest. "Excuse me, sir, this is an active boarding gate. Only ticketed passengers and authorized personnel—"
The second man turned on Derek. With one flick of his wrist, he produced a gold-and-black credentials wallet. "I am Agent Vance Security Director Bradley Cross. If you speak one more word, you will leave this airport in federal custody."
Derek’s face drained of every drop of color. "V-Vance Security? As in... Vance-Global Holdings?"
"Evelyn..." Franklin murmured, ignoring the chaos and gently tapping her cold hand. "Evelyn, stay with me. Look at me. Breathe slow."
Her eyelids fluttered open. Her rheumy eyes found Franklin’s steady, weathered face. A frail smile touched her pale lips. "I’m... I’m alright, son. Just my blood pressure. These old bones don't like shouting."
"She needs water and oxygen, right now," Franklin told Marcus firmly.
Marcus looked at Franklin, his sharp demeanor softening into profound gratitude. "Thank you for catching her, sir. Paramedics are already entering through the jet bridge."
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Madison stood frozen three feet away. Her heart was hammering against her ribs so violently she could hear it in her ears. She looked at her phone screen, where a new message from her firm’s senior partner had just popped up: *DO NOT ENGAGE. The woman in the coat is Evelyn Vance Whitmore. She owns the airline. She owns the airport terminal. She owns forty percent of our investment fund.*
Madison raised her trembling eyes to her father—a retired municipal mechanic wearing a clearance-rack jacket—who was still quietly holding the hands of the most powerful woman in American civil aviation.
