One thing they had always been able to agree on was the need to be overprotective of their daughter. Mattie negotiated her way down the aisle with her bagful of books and electronics like a miniature adult. It killed Quinn inside that he had to cart her off to Russia in order to ensure her safety. Once she was seated, he made a mental note to go for a short walk upstairs after they got airborne, just to ease his mind. The thought of over five thousand square feet of floor space was a little overwhelming.
An Alaska girl from birth, Mattie had been used to flying from the time she was still in diapers, but even she’d stared open-mouthed at the luxury of the upper-crust seating when they’d walked through first class. The rest of the main, or lower deck, was coach, with three-four-three seating and an aisle down either side. The forward two-thirds of the second deck was reserved for business class, not quite as fancy as first, but still relatively spacious — and expensive at around eight grand a seat. The rear of the upper deck contained more economy seating, cramped and ordinary like the seats Quinn had been able to afford.
Mattie stopped in mid row and compared her ticket to the number above the seat. They were about as far from the ritzy real estate up front as they could get.
“Here they are, Dad,” Mattie said. Quinn was amazed at how much the tone and lilt of her voice sounded like Kim’s.
Seats were scarce with their last-minute booking, but Quinn was able to get theirs on the left side of the plane. Years of flying armed had ingrained the habit of choosing a seat where his gun hand could be next to the aisle — as much to keep from having to explain the bulge between himself and another passenger as to get access to any problem that sprang up during flight.
The guy in the window seat, on the other side of Mattie, looked to be in his late forties. His graying hair was buzzed short over a high forehead. Slightly built, he had a perpetual squint and a prominent chin that reminded Quinn of Popeye the Sailor. Slouching back with the big chin against his chest, the man’s head bobbed to the tune on his headphones. A sweater and a paperback spy novel lay beside him in Mattie’s seat.
She stood politely, waiting for him to move his belongings while Quinn stowed their bags in the overhead. The guy looked up, still nodding to his music, and grudgingly picked up his stuff.
Mattie flopped down beside him, exploring what was to be her new home for the next twelve hours. She brushed the man’s arm when she fished her seat belt out from the space in between their seats. He recoiled as if she’d slapped him, yanking off the headphones.
“Lucky me,” he groaned. “An entire day of flying and I get stuck by some kid who’s all elbows.”
“I’m sorry.” Mattie flinched, shooting a glance at her dad. “I was just trying to get my seat belt.”
“How about that.” He mocked her high voice. “Let’s just try and keep our bony little selves in our own seats. Okay?”
Quinn gave Mattie a wink, nodding her back out into the aisle.
“I think you’re in my seat, Sweet Pea,” he said. “I’ll take the middle.”
The guy groaned again when Quinn moved in beside him.
It was amazing how quickly the airline got so many people to board and buckle up. A few minutes later, the screens on the back of each seat in front of them flickered to life and the Global safety video began to play as the gigantic aircraft began the lumbering taxi toward the runway.
Quinn settled in, letting his arm and shoulders spill over into Popeye’s space, forcing him to readjust with a sidelong glare. He started to say something, but the pilot came over the intercom, introducing the crew.
“Dobroye utro,” the pilot said, showing off his Russian good morning. “I’m Captain Rob Szymanski. Captain Rob, to make it easier on everybody. Welcome aboard Global Airlines Flight 105 from Anchorage to Petropavlovsk, Vladivostok, and continuing on to Moscow. They want to get us out of here quickly this morning so they’ll have room for three more normal-size airplanes. They didn’t quite take the size of our bird into account, so they need to move some things before we can push back and get in line for departure. We’ll be underway shortly, so sit back and let our capable flight attendants see to your comfort — but more importantly, your safety…”
An attendant named Carly stopped her walkthrough beside Mattie. She was tall with broad shoulders and thick curls of bourbon blond hair that was heavy enough to stay put over one shoulder where it played peekaboo with her eye like a 1940s starlet. The ID card hanging around her neck said her last name was Shakhov and Quinn wondered if she might speak Russian. Smiling, she leaned in to remind the man with the Popeye chin to take his headphones off during the safety briefing.
The man threw his head back, like a teenager who was angry at being told to clean his room, and stared up at the attendant. He left the headphones in place, forcing her to ask him again.
She did, smiling as she’d been trained to do when dealing with turds.
“As you wish, my queen,” Popeye said. He gave a flourish of his hand, mocking her with a theatrical bow.
Carly chuckled as if she’d seen it all before. She was dressed in Global’s trim red skirt and white blouse. Quinn guessed her to be in her early thirties, but she carried herself like she’d been in the business for some time.
She caught Quinn’s eye, shaking her head as if to apologize, before looking back to the passenger with the Popeye chin. “You can put them back on as soon as the briefing is over,” she said. “Believe me, if anything were to happen, you’ll be glad you paid attention.”
Satisfied her orders were being obeyed, Carly gave Quinn one more nod — identifying him as an ally — and continued down the aisle.
Mattie leaned forward looking up and down the aisle. “Four back, three forward, Dad — in case the lights go out.”
“Good deal, Sweet Pea.” Quinn gave her a thumbs-up for remembering. When she was only three years old, he’d taught her to count the number of seats between her and the exits in case she had to find her way out in the dark.
Her eyes sparkled as she focused on the safety video playing in front of her, sucking in the information the way Quinn took in languages.
She glanced up at her dad. “My teacher told us why they have you bend forward in case of a crash,” she said, putting herself in brace position. “This way you’re only thrown backward into your seat if the pilot has to land hard and won’t get whipped forward and then back, like this.” She demonstrated the movement in her seat.
“That’s exactly right,” Quinn said, genuinely proud.
Popeye threw up his hands. “Seriously,” he said. “Do I have to listen to two safety briefings at once?”
Quinn turned to look the man in the eye. That prominent chin was an awfully tempting target.
“What is it that you do?” Quinn said. He kept his voice low, just above a whisper.
“What?” Popeye sneered, leaning backwards as far as he could, creating as much distance as possible before the window stopped him. “What do you mean?”
“For a living?” Quinn nodded slowly. “What is it you do for your job?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, “but I’m in the crab industry.”
“A crab fisherman?” Quinn mused. This guy was far too flighty to survive on board any crab boat he’d ever been around. Quinn’s father would have thrown him out for chum ten minutes after his shoes hit the deck.
“No, not a fisherman,” the guy said, pursing his lips as if the very word was distasteful. “Fishermen are shit for brains stupid. I’m a buyer. I buy Russian crab for the US market.”