Chapter 8 - The Economy Class Landing
On Thursday afternoon at 4:15 PM, Delta Flight 085 from Paris touched down on Runway 27R at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.
Everett Crane did not emerge into the terminal through the VIP skybridge.
He did not have a personal driver waiting with a sign bearing his name.
He stumbled out of the main concourse exit wearing the same Canali suit he had worn on Monday morning—except now, after four days of sweating in budget hostels, sleeping in economy seat 44E next to a crying toddler, and washing his face in airport restrooms, the suit was wrinkled, stained with stale coffee down the left lapel, and smelled faintly of cheap tobacco.
His Italian leather shoes were scuffed. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed with dark, bruised circles of pure exhaustion.
He had no luggage.
When he had checked in for his economy standby flight at Charles de Gaulle, he had been informed that his ticket only covered one personal item. The gate agents had demanded 150 Euros for each of his two heavy Rimowa suitcases.
He had twenty-two Euros left in his pocket.
He had been forced to abandon his luggage—including four thousand dollars worth of custom shirts, silk ties, and leather shoes—on the tile floor of Terminal 2 in Paris.
He carried only his laptop bag, which contained his passport, a dead phone, and the printed divorce papers Arthur Sterling had emailed him.
As he shuffled past the international customs exit into the bright, fluorescent greeting area of the Atlanta terminal, he looked around wildly.
He expected to see his mother. He expected to see Walter.
He even thought, in some deranged corner of his narcissistic mind, that Stella might be standing near the barrier with the Porsche keys, ready to tell him that this had all been a terrible test of his commitment—that if he just apologized, cried, and blamed everything on a temporary mid-life crisis, the penthouse doors would open once more.
Instead, two men in dark charcoal suits and federal credentials stepped directly in front of him.
“Everett Crane?” the taller man asked, displaying a gold badge bearing the seal of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.
Everett froze. His laptop bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor.
“I... yes?” he croaked, his throat raw.
“I’m Special Agent Davis. This is Agent Thomas. We have an active warrant for your arrest issued by the Fulton County Superior Court for commercial grand larceny, identity theft, and corporate fraud.”
A crowd of arriving passengers began to skirt around them, whispering and staring.
“Wait!” Everett gasped, raising his hands in surrender. “No! There’s an error! This is a domestic dispute! My wife—my wife is framing me! She owns the company! She’s doing this because of a divorce!”
Agent Davis did not change his expression. He took Everett’s right arm, twisted it behind his back with practiced, effortless efficiency, and snapped a cold steel cuff around his wrist.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Davis recited into Everett’s ear as the second cuff clicked into place. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Stella!” Everett screamed, thrashing against the agent's grip as the cuffs bit into his skin. “Call Stella! She’s my wife! She can drop the charges! Call my parents!”
“Your parents aren't in Georgia, Mr. Crane,” Agent Davis muttered, guiding him firmly toward a private security door marked *AUTHORITY PERSONNEL ONLY*. “They took a Greyhound bus out of Atlanta this morning after their flight vouchers were canceled.”
Everett stopped dead. “A bus?”
“Move your feet, sir,” the agent said, shoving him forward into the grey service corridor.
Twenty minutes later, Everett Crane was sitting in the back of an unmarked transport cruiser, staring through a steel mesh partition as the Atlanta skyline loomed in the distance.
May you like
The city he had planned to conquer had closed its gates to him forever.
***
