Chapter 6 - The Captain’s Interrogation
"Captain," Chloe said, her voice shaking slightly as she gestured to Jennifer. "This passenger deliberately spilled hot coffee on Ms. Amara and then physically assaulted her—she struck her across the face in the middle of flight service."
Captain Reynolds didn't look at Chloe. His gaze remained fixed on Jennifer, whose arrogant demeanor was rapidly evaporating under the heavy weight of his scrutiny.
"Is this true, madam?" the captain asked, stepping closer.
Jennifer swallowed hard, trying to salvage her crumbling dignity. "She... she started it! She’s flying on a fraudulent ticket, she doesn't belong up here, and she provoked me by refusing to respect my authority as a—"
"Quiet," Captain Reynolds cut her off with a single word, spoken so quietly yet with such absolute finality that Jennifer snapped her mouth shut instantly. "I don't care about your opinions on seating arrangements. Physical assault on an aircraft is a federal offense under international aviation law. We can divert this plane to the nearest regional airport right now, land on the tarmac, and hand you over directly to the FBI and local police. Is that what you prefer?"
Jennifer turned completely pale. "You can't do that! Do you know who my husband is? Do you know how many shares of this airline—"
"I don't care if your husband owns the sky," Captain Reynolds interrupted coldly. "Show me your identification. Both of you. Right now."
With trembling, uncharacteristic clumsiness, Jennifer reached into her designer handbag, pulled out her passport, and thrust it toward him. Jennifer Vance.
Captain Reynolds scanned it quickly, memorizing the name with a flicker of profound disgust in his eyes. Then, he turned his attention to Amara, who was quietly reaching into the inner lining of her coat with her uninjured left hand.
Amara pulled out her passport and the manila folder of documents, handing them over without a single word of complaint.
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Captain Reynolds took the documents. He opened Jennifer’s passport first, glanced at it dismissively, and then flipped open Amara’s ID.
As his eyes scanned the embossed gold lettering and the official corporate security clearance stamp embossed at the bottom—featuring three distinct, unmistakable letters: A.W.C.—the captain’s face drained of all color. His breath hitched in his throat, and he stumbled back half a step, staring at the letters as if he had just seen a ghost.
