"Alara!" Ryan screamed, turning to her. "Miss Banks, please don't let them take me. I'll pay you back. I have a family." Alara looked at him. She remembered the sneer on his face when he called her a street rat. She remembered him blocking the stairs. "You have a family, Ryan?" Alara asked calmly. "That's funny. When I was standing in the rain, you didn't care if I had a family. You didn't care if I was a human being. You only cared about the patch of mud on your carpet. I was stressed. I made a mistake," Ryan pleaded, tears streaming down his face. The arrogance was completely gone, replaced by a pathetic groveling fear.
"You didn't make a mistake," Alara said, stepping closer to him. "You made a choice. You chose to judge me based on how I looked. You chose to steal from me because you thought I was too stupid to notice. And you chose to treat me like garbage because you thought you were untouchable." She leaned, and her voice a whisper that hit him harder than a shout. "You are fired, Ryan. Effective immediately. For cause. Which means no severance, no pension. And I will personally make sure that every aviation authority from the FAA to EASA knows exactly what you did. You will never sit in a cockpit again unless you're cleaning it."
Ryan collapsed. Literally. His knees gave way, and he slumped against the cockpit door sobbing into his hands. Commandant Lefevre nodded to his men. "Take him." Two officers grabbed Ryan by the arms and hauled him up. They spun him around, and the metallic click click of handcuffs echoed through the luxury jet. Tara let out a sob. "Ms. Banks, I didn't fly the plane. I didn't steal it. I just... I just served the drinks." Alara turned her gaze to Tara. "You were an accomplice, Tara," Alara said. "You were on that flight to Nassau. I saw the receipts for the catering. You signed them. And beyond that, you filmed a passenger for mockery. You violated my privacy and the privacy of this aircraft."
Alara pulled out a white envelope from her purse. She tossed it onto the galley counter. "That is a letter from my legal team," Alara said. "We are suing you for breach of confidentiality and defamation. And naturally, you are fired." "Please," Tara wailed as an officer gently but firmly took her arm. "I can't go to a French jail. I don't speak French." "You have plenty of time to learn," Alara said coldly. The officers marched them out. Ryan Sterling, the man who thought he was a king, was dragged down the stairs of the jet he used to command weeping like a child. Tara followed, her perfect makeup ruined by tears.
Below on the tarmac, a few airport workers had gathered. They watched as the pilot and flight attendant were shoved into the back of the police cars. Alara stood at the top of the stairs. The morning wind blew her hair back. She took a deep breath of the crisp Paris air. It tasted like victory. Commandant Lefevre paused at the bottom of the stairs. "We will need a formal statement from you at the station, Mademoiselle Banks." "I'll be there in an hour, Commandant," Alara said. "I just need to make one phone call." Lefevre tipped his cap and walked away.
Alara pulled out her phone. She dialed Marcel Thorne again. "Alara," Marcel answered on the first ring. "Did you land? Is everything okay?" "I landed safely, Marcel," Alara said, watching the police cars drive away with flashing lights. "But the Obsidian King is currently without a crew." "What happened?" Marcel asked. "The trash has been taken out," Alara said. "Send me a new pilot. I have a meeting in Tokyo in 3 days. And Marcel, yes, make sure the next pilot knows that I wear hoodies."
The holding cell at the Police Aux Frontieres station near Le Bourget Airport was a stark contrast to the cream leather and gold trim of the Obsidian King. The walls were painted a peeling institutional green and the air smelled of stale tobacco and industrial cleaner. Captain Ryan Sterling sat on a hard wooden bench, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His pristine uniform was rumpled, the epaulets crooked. For the first time in 30 years, he wasn't looking down at the world from 45,000 ft. He was at rock bottom.
Across the hallway, in a separate holding cell, he could hear Tara Blair sobbing. She had been crying for 2 hours straight. She had asked for her phone 10 times. She had asked for a makeup wipe. She had asked to speak to her followers. The French officers, unimpressed by her influencer status, had simply closed the heavy steel door. A court-appointed French attorney, a sharp-eyed woman named Madame Renard, entered Ryan's cell. She didn't offer a handshake. She sat down and opened a thin file. "Monsieur Sterling," she said, her English heavily accented but precise. "I have reviewed the preliminary charges filed by Mademoiselle Banks and the aviation authorities. It is severe."
"It's a misunderstanding," Ryan croaked, his voice hoarse. "I can fix this. I just need to call Marcel Thorne. He'll vouch for me." Madame Renard looked at him with pity. "Monsieur Thorne has already issued a statement. He has terminated your contract with Apex Aviation immediately. He is also cooperating with the FBI regarding the interstate transport of stolen property. He has labeled you a rogue actor. You have no allies, monsieur." Ryan felt the blood drain from his face. The rogue actor label was a death sentence in aviation. It meant he was uninsurable.
"What... What are the charges?" "Grand theft of an aircraft, falsification of international flight logs, illegal entry into the Bahamas, customs fraud, and because you used the owner's fuel and resources for personal gain embezzlement over $100,000." Madame Renard closed the file. "The prosecutors are not looking for a fine, Captain. They are looking for prison time. Minimum 3 years here in France, followed by extradition to the United States." Ryan slumped back against the cold wall. He thought about the $50,000 he had made from the rapper for the illegal charter. It seemed like such a small, pathetic amount of money now. He had traded his life, his reputation, and his freedom for a handful of cash and the arrogant belief that he was smarter than the black woman in the hoodie.