The three men stopped exactly ten feet away, expressions unreadable behind dark lenses. The passengers had cleared the seating area, leaving an open ring of empty chairs around us.

Part 2 — Flight or Fight

The lead man lowered his sunglasses just enough to show eyes as gray as slate. He didn’t offer a hand.

“Mr. Bellmont,” he said, flat and without inflection.

He let my family name hang there while his eyes measured the distance to Maren and the twins. Her nails pressed through the lining of my jacket.

“Who authorized you to approach my family?” My voice dropped into a register that echoed off the metal gate.

He reached into his coat, unhurried, and drew out a sleek tablet showing a live tracking map of the terminal. He turned it toward me — a web of security cameras isolated to watch Gate D18.