Brock let out an audible scoff. "Sir, we've wasted enough time."
Preston, still standing in the aisle, shook his head dramatically. "This guy has been playing games since I got here. Put him in coach and let's get moving."
Darien turned toward him. "You're free to ask for a different seat, Mr. Carmichael. You are not entitled to demand mine."
"I won't be sitting in coach because you refuse to behave like a grown man."
"Then perhaps we should ask your travel department why the airline has two passes for the same suite."
Robert lifted his hand, ending the exchange. "Mr. Vega, this has gone on long enough. We need him off the aircraft."
Luis began to speak, but Darien raised one open hand, palm toward the contractor. "Please don't touch me. I'm going to make one call."
"You aren't allowed to hold up departure to call an attorney," Brock snapped.
"I'm not calling my attorney."
He reached into his jacket and took out his phone. The movement was slow, deliberate, and visible to everyone standing around him. He unlocked it with his thumb, selected a number he rarely used, and placed the phone on the side table before the others could mistake the gesture for anything else.
Richard Harrington had given Darien the private number after their companies completed negotiations on the annual travel agreement. "When something genuinely serious goes wrong," Richard had said over dinner, "call me before somebody turns a small failure into a big public disaster." Darien had laughed at the time, because it sounded like a familiar executive promise that could safely be forgotten after the meal.
He had never used the number. He preferred reporting airline problems through the people whose jobs were meant to resolve them, and he did not like the implication that a customer needed personal access to an executive to receive competent service. Today, however, those ordinary channels had been closed before they were properly opened.
The phone rang. Once, twice, then a third time. A clear, slightly accented voice answered.
"Richard Harrington speaking."
The transformation in the faces surrounding Darien was immediate. Brock's expression froze. Captain Miller's eyes widened, and Preston looked toward the phone with an irritated confusion that rapidly became alertness. Luis, who had been trying to keep a careful distance from the argument, quietly lowered his radio.
"Richard, it's Darien Phillips. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
"Darien!" the voice replied warmly. "Good heavens, congratulations. I saw the Apex announcement this morning. Four hundred million dollars. That is a remarkable achievement, and I hope someone has persuaded you to celebrate."
"Thank you. We have a lot of people to thank for it."
"Are you on your way home? You mentioned a New York flight when we last spoke."
"I'm sitting on Flight 802 at JFK, actually. Seat 1A."
"Then I hope we're looking after you."
Darien let the sentence settle. He watched Captain Miller's gaze drop to the floor and Brock's hand tighten around her radio. Preston stood motionless, staring at the device as though disbelief could disconnect the call.