The older officer’s face tightened. “You’re retired.”
I gave him a small, ugly half-smile.
“Not after yesterday.”
He sighed like he’d been waiting for that sentence for years.
“All right,” he said. “But you won’t fly alone.”
Hours later, at a coastal airstrip that didn’t show up on public maps, a small jet waited with its markings covered and its engines humming low.
Technicians stared as I walked past, whispers chasing my heels.
“That’s her.”
“Falcon One’s back.”
A younger pilot met me at the stairs and snapped a salute.
“It’s an honor, ma’am.”
I didn’t soften.
“We’re wheels up in ten,” I said.
He nodded. “Coordinates locked.”
When the jet lifted into the sky, the vibration under my hands hit like a memory I’d tried to drown.
I hadn’t missed the danger.
I’d missed the control.
