Julian’s stride slowed.

I watched him register the suits, watched the quick calculation move behind his face.

“What’s this,” he said, half to himself.

“Some kind of emergency?” He put a hand lightly on my back, steering, already looking for the clear path around the group toward the main concourse.

“Julian Vance?”

Sarah’s voice carried across the gate, clear and even, and it stopped him where he stood.

He turned, and he produced a polite, puzzled, entirely professional smile — the smile of an innocent man happy to help.