Chapter 13: Terminal Desperation
Chapter 13: Terminal Desperation
The international terminal at O'Hare was a chaotic symphony of rolling luggage, frantic announcements, and stressed travelers. To Vanessa, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. It was the sound of escape.
She walked with purpose, her head down, the oversized sunglasses shielding her eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights. She found the ticketing counter for a major Latin American airline. Her plan was simple and structurally sound: fly first-class to Mexico City, where passport control was notoriously relaxed for wealthy travelers, and then pay cash for a puddle-jumper flight down to Buenos Aires. Argentina didn't extradite for white-collar wire fraud, especially not without a drawn-out, highly publicized legal battle that Nathan's board of directors would absolutely forbid.
She approached the counter, offering the ticketing agent a polite, exhausted smile.
"I need a one-way ticket on the next flight to Mexico City," Vanessa said, sliding the Canadian passport across the counter. "First class, if you have it."
The agent tapped away at her keyboard. "We have one seat left in the premier cabin on the 3:00 PM flight, Ms. Bennett. It will be quite expensive this close to departure."
"That's fine," Vanessa said, unzipping her duffel bag just enough to pull out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. "I'll be paying in cash."
The agent blinked, slightly taken aback by the sheer volume of physical currency, but airlines rarely argued with immediate profit. After a few agonizing minutes of counting and typing, the printer whirred to life.
"Here is your boarding pass, Ms. Bennett. Gate M12. You have access to the premier lounge, and boarding will begin in forty-five minutes. Have a pleasant flight."
Vanessa took the heavy cardstock pass, her fingers trembling slightly with adrenaline. I did it, she thought, a manic thrill racing down her spine. I actually did it.
The next hurdle was the TSA security checkpoint. This was the chokepoint where fugitives were made or broken. Vanessa merged into the premium-access line, standing behind a wealthy family arguing over iPads. She kept her breathing slow and measured, a technique she had learned years ago to lower her heart rate.
She handed her boarding pass and the fake Canadian passport to the TSA officer.
The officer, a bored-looking man chewing gum, swiped the passport under a blacklight scanner. He looked at the photo, then looked up at Vanessa.
"Take off the sunglasses, please, ma'am," he droned.
Vanessa's stomach dropped, but she complied smoothly, pulling the dark frames down the bridge of her nose and offering a sleepy smile.
The officer looked at her eyes, looked back at the screen, and then handed the documents back. "Have a good flight, Ms. Bennett."
She practically glided through the metal detectors. She had crossed the Rubicon. She was officially in the sterile area of the international terminal, effectively out of the immediate jurisdiction of the local Chicago police.
With an hour to kill, she bypassed the crowded food courts and walked directly into the dimly lit, heavily carpeted sanctuary of the first-class lounge. She ordered a double vodka tonic on the rocks and sank into a plush leather armchair facing the massive windows overlooking the tarmac.
She took a long, slow sip of the icy liquor, letting the alcohol burn down her throat and settle her fraying nerves. She looked out at the massive Boeing 777 being prepped at the gate.
A dark, cynical smile crept onto her lips. She thought of Nathan, sitting in that boardroom, probably still weeping over his shattered ego. She thought of Sarah, signing divorce papers for a marriage that had been ruined by a simple, inflated piece of rubber. She had lost the two million, sure, but she was free. She would regroup in South America, find a new mark, and start all over again. Men were inherently stupid, biological creatures. There would always be another Nathan.
At 2:45 PM, the boarding announcement echoed through the lounge.
"First-class passengers for Flight 802 to Mexico City, we are now beginning the boarding process at Gate M12."
Vanessa finished her drink, grabbed her canvas duffel, and walked out of the lounge. The concourse was relatively quiet near the luxury gates. She approached the jet bridge, her boarding pass clutched tightly in her hand. She was three minutes away from stepping onto a plane that would carry her far out of the FBI's reach.
She handed her pass to the gate agent, who scanned it with a cheerful beep.
"Welcome aboard, Ms. Bennett," the agent smiled, gesturing down the long, carpeted tunnel of the jet bridge.
Vanessa took a step forward. The air conditioning of the tunnel hit her face. She had won.
"Valerie," a voice echoed from the jet bridge.
May you like
Vanessa froze. Her blood turned to ice water.
Stepping out from behind the corner of the boarding tunnel wasn't a flight attendant. It was Marcus Vance, the private investigator, looking rumpled and out of breath. And standing right beside him, wearing the same faded denim jacket and a look of absolute, unyielding triumph, was Ethan Miller.
