Chapter 2
The Transcontinental U-Turn
Max
We are at thirty thousand feet, cruising somewhere over the Midwest. The cabin pressure is set to six thousand feet, which makes my ears pop rhythmically every four minutes.
To my left, Jax is asleep. Or at least, he is pretending to be.
His eyes are closed, but his hand is gripping the armrest with enough force to crack the molded plastic.
He hates flying. He says it violates his control issues because he cannot personally inspect the pilot’s credentials or the hydraulic lines.
"Macadamia nut?" Luke asks from across the aisle.
Lucas 'Luke' Silva—my brother's beau, St. Jude’s newest ER Attending, and the son of the most terrifying woman at St. Jude's hospital, Mama Ortiz—is holding out a packet of warmed nuts.
He is wearing a hoodie that says Nurses Do It With Patience, which is technically inaccurate since he is a doctor, but Luke enjoys the irony and his mother appreciates the moral support.
"No," I say, checking my watch. "We are forty-five minutes into a five-hour flight. We need to conserve resources. We do not know what the food situation will be in Nevada."
"Max," Preston says from the window seat next to Luke. "We are in Business Class. They bring us warm cookies. We are not refugees. We are fugitives with SkyMiles."
Preston, my brother and a forensic psychiatric resident, looks entirely too calm.
He is wearing a charcoal turtleneck that probably cost more than the landing gear of this aircraft.
He is reading a medical journal titled Narcissism in the Matriarchy: A Case Study.
I suspect he is profiling our mother. Again.
"She knows," I whisper. I can feel it. The vibration of the plane feels wrong. The air recycling system sounds too aggressive. "Catherine knows we’re gone."
"She’s in a strategy meeting with the florist," Jax mumbles, not opening his eyes. "She’s arguing about the structural integrity of a peony arch. We’re safe, Max.
We’re going to Vegas. We’re going to find an Elvis who isn't dead, we’re going to get married, and I am going to eat a burger that hasn't been deconstructed into a foam. "
I want to believe him. I want to believe in the linear trajectory of this flight. Point A to Point B. New York to Las Vegas. Freedom.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. The "Fasten Seatbelt" sign is off, and the need to verify the data is itching under my skin. I stand up and step into the aisle, crossing the invisible demilitarized zone to where Preston and Luke are sitting.
"Preston," I say.
My brother looks up, marking his page with a silk ribbon. "Maxwell. Are you experiencing a panic attack, or have you come to reorganize the beverage cart?"
"I need to confirm the parameters of the operation," I say, lowering my voice so the flight attendant—who is currently pouring champagne for the bachelorette party—doesn't hear.
"You are the Best Man. Historically, this role involves organizing a bachelor party and ensuring the groom arrives at the venue.
However, given the current tactical situation, the role has expanded. "
Preston raises his eyebrow. "Expanded how?"
"You are now the Chief of Logistics for a clandestine operation," I clarify. "Do you have the rings?"
Preston pats his breast pocket. "Titanium. Hypoallergenic. Indestructible. Just as you requested."
"Do you have the psychiatric override codes in case I enter a fugue state?"
"I have a syringe of lorazepam in my carry-on and a power of attorney drafted on a napkin," Preston assures me. "You are covered."
I nod, the tightness in my chest loosening by a fraction of a millimetre.
Preston has always been the 'Spare' to my 'Heir', the observer to my participant.
Growing up in the York household, we were pitted against each other like racehorses, but somewhere between his medical school residency and my tenure as Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, we found a demilitarized zone.
"Thank you," I say, the words feeling heavy and strange on my tongue. "For the extraction. And for coming with us. I know you probably had other plans.”
Preston softens. It is a rare expression for him, one that cracks the polished York veneer. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Max. And besides, it’s what brothers do. I couldn't let you get absorbed. You’ve fought too hard for your autonomy."
"I have," I agree.
"Consider it an investment," Preston says, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "I’m simply returning the favour in advance. I’ll need you to do the same for me when it’s my turn."
There is a beat of silence.
Next to him, Luke freezes. The macadamia nut he was about to throw into his mouth pauses in mid-air.
"Your turn?" Luke asks, his voice squeaking slightly. "Babe? What do you mean, your turn?"
Preston’s eyes go wide. The clinical detachment vanishes instantly. A flush of colour, bright red and completely uncharacteristic, creeps up his neck and settles high on his cheekbones.
"I—I was speaking hypothetically," Preston stammers, suddenly finding the rivets on the fuselage incredibly interesting. "In a theoretical timeline where… statistically speaking…"
"You want to get married?" Luke beams, practically vibrating in his seat. "To me? Oh my god, are we eloping too? Can we do a double Elvis? Max, tell him we can do a double Elvis!"
"We are not doing a double Elvis," Preston hisses, snapping his journal open and burying his face in it. "I was speaking of a distant, abstract future. Read your comic book, Luke."
"He’s blushing," Luke whispers loudly to me. "Max, look! The Ice Prince is melting!"
"I am not melting," Preston mutters from behind the paper wall. "I am experiencing a vascular dilation due to the altitude. Go away, Maxwell."
I almost smile. For a moment, the terror of the wedding recedes. We are just four men in a metal tube, navigating the chaotic biology of being human.
Then, the universe corrects itself.
Bing.
The seatbelt sign illuminates. It is an angry, insistent orange that cuts through the cabin lighting.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking," the voice comes over the intercom. It sounds hesitant. Baffled, actually. "We, uh… we have a slight situation."
Jax opens one eye. The sleepy warmth vanishes, replaced by the sharp, predatory focus of a trauma surgeon. "I don't like 'slight situations'. In my line of work, that usually means a bleeder."
"We have just received a transmission from Air Traffic Control," the Captain continues, his voice trembling slightly. "It appears that while we were over Ohio, a hostile corporate takeover occurred. Trans-Continental Airlines has been purchased in its entirety."
My blood runs cold. It is a physical sensation, like liquid nitrogen pouring down my spine. The hum of the engines suddenly sounds less like propulsion and more like a trap snapping shut.
"The new owner," the Captain sighs, the sound of a man who knows his pension is now at risk, "is the York Foundation."
"She bought the airline?" Jax sits up so fast his seatbelt locks. "She bought the whole damn airline? In forty-five minutes?"
"Wait for it," Preston says, lowering his journal, his face still flushed but his expression grim.
"The new ownership has revoked our landing clearance for Las Vegas," the Captain says, sounding like he needs a stiff drink.
"We have been ordered to return to JFK immediately for a…
'branding inspection'. Also, I have been informed that the in-flight movie has been changed to a three-hour documentary about the history of Chantilly lace. "
"She bought the sky," I whisper, rocking slightly. "Jax, she bought the sky."
"It’s a blockade," Jax growls, looking out the window as the massive plane begins a slow, sickening bank to the left. The g-force presses us into our seats. "She’s sieging us. It’s a tactical retreat!"
The cabin erupts. Business Class is usually a quiet ecosystem of noise-canceling headphones and gin and tonics, but now there is shouting. A man in row 3 is demanding to see a manager. A woman in row 5 is crying about her bachelorette party, screaming that she "can't go back to New Jersey sober."
The noise hits me like a physical blow. The shouting, the engine whine, the collective spike in cortisol levels.
It is a sensory assault. The data is coming in too fast—the smell of spilled champagne, the pitch of the woman’s scream, the vibration of the turn.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
"Max," Jax’s voice cuts through the static. It is his "Combat Medic" voice. Low. Grounding. "Focus on my voice. Just the voice. Ignore the noise."
"She rebranded the plane while we were inside it," I whisper. "She is going to make the pilot wear a cravat."
"Help! Someone help him!"
The scream comes from the back of the Business cabin. It is high, shrill, and terrified.
I see Jax unbuckle his seatbelt immediately as he jumps up to help the passenger. I follow him, not because I want to, but because the algorithm of a medical emergency overrides the panic of a social one.
Across the aisle, Luke starts to rise, his golden retriever instincts kicking in. "I’ve got the advanced cardiac life support certification! I can assist!"
Preston puts a hand on Luke's chest and pushes him back into the seat.
"Sit down, Luke," Preston says calmly.
"But someone’s dying!" Luke argues, pointing down the aisle.
"Let them handle it," Preston says, watching us sprint toward the chaos.
"Look at them. They’re vibrating. They need the distraction anyway.
If they don't stab someone in the chest in the next thirty seconds, Max is going to try to organize the beverage cart by viscosity and Jax is going to try to hijack the plane. "
We rush down the aisle to Row 12. A man in his sixties—expensive suit, flushed skin—is slumped over in his seat. He is clutching his chest, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on a dock. He is gasping, but no air is moving.