"Picked it up." Victoria felt her patience crack. "You don't just pick that up. That was military-grade crisis management." Jake finally stopped working.
He straightened and looked at her. And for the first time, Victoria saw something behind his eyes. Something guarded and deliberate. "I used to work on jets," he said. "Long time ago.
Now I work on jets here. That's all you need to know." Victoria wanted to push, but the look on his face told her she wouldn't get anywhere. She stepped back, her mind spinning. The tattoo on his arm, the way he'd handled the emergency, the precision in every movement.
This man wasn't what he appeared to be, and Victoria didn't like mysteries she couldn't solve. She pulled out her phone and opened her email, typing a quick message to her head of security. She attached a photo she'd taken of Jake earlier when he'd been crouched by the engine. The subject line read, "Run a background check. Priority one."
By the time Jake finished the repairs, it was almost 9:00. Victoria's meeting was a loss, but she didn't care. She stood by the limousine and watched Jake pack up his tools, moving with the same unhurried efficiency he'd had all morning. When he was done, he walked over and handed her a clipboard. "Sign here," Jake said.
Victoria took the clipboard and scanned the work order. Everything was itemized, every part accounted for. At the bottom, in neat block letters, was his signature, J. Miller. Victoria signed and handed it back.
"Thank you," she said, and she meant it. Jake nodded once, then turned and walked toward a pickup truck parked near the hangar. Victoria watched him go, her curiosity now something sharper, something she couldn't ignore. She climbed into the limousine and told the driver to take her to the nearest hotel. She wasn't leaving Millbrook until she knew who Jake Miller really was.
The background check came back 3 days later, and Victoria read it twice before she believed it. Jake Miller, age 39, honorably discharged from the Air Force 8 years ago with the rank of captain. Before that, he'd spent 12 years as an aerospace engineer specializing in turbine design. He'd worked on classified projects at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, held two patents under his name, and had security clearance high enough that half his file was still redacted. Then his wife died in a car accident, and he'd walked away from everything.
Now he lived in a rental house on the edge of Millbrook with his daughter and fixed planes for a living. Victoria sat in her hotel room with the report open on her laptop staring at the photo of Jake in his Air Force uniform. He looked younger, sharper, like someone who belonged in a briefing room instead of a hangar. She thought about the way he'd handled the emergency landing, the precision in his voice when he'd talked the pilot down. It made sense now.
What didn't make sense was why a man with that kind of talent was wasting it in a town with 2,000 people and one stoplight. She picked up her phone and called her assistant. "Clear my schedule for the rest of the week," Victoria said. The assistant started to protest, but Victoria cut her off. "I'll be in Colorado.
Handle it." The next morning, Victoria drove back to Millbrook Field. Jake was in the hangar working on a Cessna that looked older than he was. He glanced up when she walked in, his expression unreadable. "You're back," Jake said.