“Flight 1482 is cleared for final departure in twenty-three minutes,” Vance said.

I crossed the floor and stopped beside the narrow blinds that looked out over Concourse C.

Outside, blue ground service vehicles crept across the tarmac between the parked jets, their amber beacons turning lazily in the fading light.

Flight 1482 sat docked at the loading bridge, its twin engines idling quietly in the damp evening air.

My right thumb drifted up to my collar and touched the metal edge of my gold oak leaf.

Daniel had looked at his wristwatch beside our car at seven that morning and reminded me to keep my temper cool around impulsive people.