"Listen to me," Frank said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Greg Wallace’s lawyer filed an emergency motion on the county e-filing portal twelve minutes ago. They submitted an affidavit claiming you sold Claire’s medical records and estate assets to an unauthorized buyer, and that you were transporting them out of state to avoid inspection. They attached a shipping manifest showing Nora Vance booked a secure freight parcel on Flight 614 tonight under our court docket number."
"What?" The word barely left my throat.
"Greg is asking for an immediate default order at nine tomorrow morning," Frank said. "If that plane lands in Minneapolis and authorities seize that crate with your name on it, the judge will issue an immediate bench warrant for your arrest for tampering with estate evidence."
The trap snapped shut in my mind. Reynolds hadn't just bumped me; he had stolen my pass so I couldn't challenge what was in the cargo hold. By stranding me here while the plane departed under my name, they were manufacturing proof that I had fled the state with stolen estate assets.
On the tarmac below, the baggage loader pulled back. The heavy aluminum cargo door of Flight 614 clanged shut, its locking handle twisting flat. The orange beacon on the tail began its rhythmic flash as the jet started its engines.
Behind me, two airport police officers were walking along the gates, scanning faces. Marcus was pointing discreetly toward me, his hand half-hidden behind his podium. If I waited for customer service, or let those officers escort me to a security office, the clock would run out. Flight 614 would land in Minneapolis at midnight with my name attached to a fraudulent crime, and by dawn, Claire would be defenseless.
I shoved the thermal receipt into the lining of my coat, zipped my bag tight against my chest, and slipped through the metal service door marked AUTHORIZED AIRPORT PERSONNEL ONLY.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
At the bottom, the corridor split: right toward baggage carousels; left toward RAMP FLIGHT OPS & FREIGHT ANNEX. Through wire-glass double doors, the tarmac opened beneath towering halogens. Flight 614’s engines whined in rising pitch, vibrating against the glass.
I pushed inside. The room smelled of wet rubber and stale coffee. Behind a desk cluttered with telemetry clipboards, an older ramp coordinator with grease smudges on his safety vest stamped baggage tallies.
His name patch read ARNIE. He didn't look up. "Baggage room is through tunnel four.
Ramp is closed for pushback."" I'm not looking for baggage," I said, stepping to the counter. I slapped Marcus’s thermal gate slip flat on the metal surface, smoothing the torn edge so the print faced him.
"I need the load sheet on Flight 614's cabin tiedown right now." Arnie stopped stamping. His eyes dropped to the slip, narrowing as they hit the billing line: ACCOUNT: C-MINN-PROB-8821.
ORDER AUTH: WALLACE, G." Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice hardening.
"Reconciliation slips don't leave the podium before pushback."" The gate agent gave it to me right before Captain Reynolds locked the jet bridge," I said. "I'm Nora Vance.
Reynolds bumped me from seat twelve-B claiming a glitch. But your terminal logged a three-hundred-and-forty-pound crate under my seat, billed to my sister’s probate docket in Hennepin County." Arnie pulled reading glasses from his pocket and inspected the print.
"That tiedown entered through perimeter gate seven at three-fifteen. Direct ramp handoff. It bypassed the terminal.""
Show me the transfer log," I said. He hesitated, glancing out the window where the tow-tug backed toward the nose gear. "I can't show freight manifests to passengers.""
Arnie, look at me," I said, setting my driver’s license beside the slip. "That jet taxis in five minutes. When it lands in Minneapolis, an emergency petition goes before Judge Holbrook claiming I fled Iowa with stolen estate files.
If that plane touches down without a record of how that crate bypassed security, federal inspectors will audit every badge swipe here. And your stamp is on this desk." The old man stiffened.
He looked from my license to the window where the tug's yellow beacon swept the wet tarmac. Without a word, he pulled an aluminum dispatch binder from beneath the counter and flipped to the bright yellow carbon leaves: FAA Form 803-A." Here," he said, turning the binder around.
The manifest item was stenciled in ink: RESTRICTED: BIO-SPECIMEN / CHAIN OF CUSTODY ARCHIVE. The delivering agent was Sarah Vance, with an attached custody waiver. Stapled to the carbon was a photocopied transfer bearing my name and a forged signature matching my slant down to the final stroke.
The date stamped beside the signature was yesterday afternoon at two-fifteen." This is forged," I said. "Yesterday at two-fifteen, I was signing the patient care log at Mercy Rehabilitation in Davenport, eighty miles away.