PART 1 — The Café Near Gate C17
Airports possess a strange, relentless pulse—never still, never quiet. Near Gate C17, a small café existed in perpetual motion: rolling suitcases, steaming espresso machines, and calm prerecorded announcements floating over anxious travelers.
At a modest table sat Lucas Reed. He had chosen the spot deliberately. From there, he could see the entrance, the security corridor, and the places where nervous travelers paused when plans unraveled.
Lucas was in his early fifties, broad-shouldered, posture shaped by decades of discipline. He had once been a Navy SEAL. Retirement had taken away the uniform, but not the instincts.
At his feet lay Shadow, a Belgian Malinois with gray on his muzzle. To others, he looked asleep. Lucas knew better. Shadow was always watching.
Lucas sipped his coffee, scanning reflections instead of faces. Couples argued softly. Businessmen tapped phones. A woman checked her watch repeatedly.
Then Shadow lifted his head.
Lucas followed his gaze and saw a girl walking between tables. She was about ten years old, wearing a leg brace that was clearly too small. Her steps were careful, calculated. Her clothes were clean but thin. She carried a paper cup with both hands.
Most people ignored her. Some shook their heads. Others clutched their bags tighter.
She stopped at Lucas’s table.
“Sir,” she whispered, “may I sit here for a minute?”
Shadow stood.
Lucas placed a hand on the dog’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “You can sit.”
Relief flashed across her face.
“My name is Lena,” she said.
“Lucas.”
“I left,” she added quietly.