Chapter 1

Turbulence Over Cairo

The air was thick with a mix of anticipation and the cheap cologne of too many travelers packed into too small a space. Frank Baxter strode through the terminal, his steps measured, eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk on the hunt. He was a man used to the shadows, but today, under the harsh glare of the airport's fluorescent lights, he felt exposed, raw. The case that had started with the Silent Locket and the disappearance of his sister, Sarah, had spiraled, pulling him deeper into a world he thought he'd left behind. Now, it was leading him to Cairo, chasing the ghost of a lead that his sister and Isabella might be there, in the clutches of a secret society whose reach seemed to have no end.

He reached the gate, where a line of passengers snaked towards a sleek aircraft, its metal skin gleaming under the morning sun—a metallic beast ready to leap across continents. Frank slipped into the line, his mind racing, rehashing the events that led him here. The Silent Locket case had torn open old wounds, leading to a labyrinth of lies and betrayal that had nearly cost him everything. But the game wasn’t over yet.

He observed the passengers around him: a young couple lost in each other’s eyes, a businessman barking orders into his phone, a family wrangling their overexcited kids. Normal people, oblivious to the dark undercurrents tugging at the edges of their mundane lives. Frank envied them, in a way. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.

As he neared the front of the line, a flight attendant welcomed them with a smile that was a little too practiced, eyes a bit too sharp. She was striking, her uniform crisp, but something in her gaze flickered—a shadow of something not quite right. Frank’s instincts, honed by years on the beat and in the alleys and backrooms where the city's pulse beat strongest, twitched. He nodded to her, his expression unreadable, but inside, the gears were turning. In his world, coincidences were a rare commodity, and he’d learned to trust the unease that settled in his gut.

He handed over his boarding pass, a one-way ticket to Cairo, stepping into the belly of the beast. The air was cooler inside, the hum of the engines a constant, distant rumble. He found his seat, stowing his carry-on—a bag that held more than just clothes—into the overhead compartment. As he settled in, his mind drifted to Isabella, her face a beacon in the darkness that had engulfed his life since she’d gone missing. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, the echo of her laugh in quieter moments. And Sarah—God, what had they gotten themselves into?

He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. The flight attendant’s face surfaced in his mind again, a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. Frank Baxter was a man who trusted his instincts, and right now, they were sounding a silent alarm, a whisper in the cacophony of boarding passengers and flight announcements.

As the plane taxied onto the runway, Frank looked out the window, the world outside blurring into motion. Cairo awaited, a city of ancient secrets and modern sins. And somewhere in its embrace, the key to unraveling the knot that had tightened around him since that fateful case of the Silent Locket.

The engines revved, a growl that shook the floor beneath Frank's feet as the plane clawed its way into the sky. He settled into the faux leather embrace of his seat, the kind that promises comfort but delivers stiffness and a crick in the neck. He gazed out the window, where the city was shrinking into a toy model of itself, streets and lives condensing into patterns, order from chaos. Up here, things seemed simpler. Neat. But Frank knew better. He knew that down there, in the sprawl, lay a tangle of lives—some desperate, some sordid, all of them real.

The flight attendant glided through the aisle, her heels clicking a steady rhythm on the cabin floor. She paused, offering drinks with that same knowing smile. Frank declined with a nod, watching as she moved on, her eyes flicking back to him just once, quick as a camera's flash. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and turned his attention to the other souls sharing his airborne voyage.

There was a man across the aisle, tapping away at a laptop, his face lit by the pale glow of the screen. Every few minutes, he would glance around, meet Frank's eyes, then hurriedly look away. A bead of sweat traveled down his temple, despite the cabin's chill. Someone used to cooler climates, or perhaps it was the heat of secrets that kept him sweating.

A few rows ahead, a child's squeal of laughter cut through the engine's drone. A small girl with pigtails was playing peekaboo with her mother, a moment of innocence that seemed out of place in Frank's world. He almost envied the kid; her biggest worry was the next time her mother's face would disappear behind her hands.

And then there was her—the woman who'd be known as Destiny. She sat diagonally from him, her features half-hidden by a curtain of auburn hair. She was looking at a photograph, her fingers tracing the edges with a tenderness that spoke volumes. She caught Frank's eye, a silent acknowledgment passed between them, and then she tucked the photo away. Her story was a folded page he was yet to read, but Frank's gut told him it would be a chapter worth understanding.

Frank's thoughts drifted back to his Sarah and Isabella. They were out there somewhere, caught in the crossfire of a war they hadn't started. The thought of them in the clutches of that arcane society, with its tendrils wrapped around the world like a shadowy octopus, tightened his chest. It wasn't just a case anymore; it was personal, a crusade that he'd see through to the bitter end, come hell or high water.

He closed his eyes, attempting to catch some sleep, knowing it was a futile effort. His mind was too crowded, each thought a pinball ricocheting in his skull. He needed to be sharp when he landed because Cairo wouldn't be a welcoming host. It never was. Not for people like Frank, people who chased down the dark alleys of truth. For them, Cairo was just another puzzle box. And inside, if he was lucky, lay the next piece of the mystery that had become his life's work.

The plane bit into the clouds, tearing them open like curtains on a stage, revealing nothing but the endless blue. Frank felt the ascent in his gut, a physical echo of the tension that had been his constant companion since this case had blown wide open. Up here, the world below seemed like a dream, but the kind that wakes you sweating in the dead of night.

He tried to shake off the unease, turning his gaze to the flight attendant as she made her rounds again. This time she stopped at his row, leaning in close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume, a mix of something floral and the underlying tang of anxiety. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Baxter?" she asked, her voice a melody that couldn't quite hide the dissonance beneath.

Frank shook his head, a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm good for now, thanks."

Her smile didn't waver, but it was as if someone had pulled it tight, stretched it a bit too far. "You know," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear, "if you need to use the restroom, I could... assist you. Join the mile-high club, perhaps?"

For a moment, Frank was taken aback. Was she serious? There was a look in her eyes, something that suggested she wasn't just making an indecent proposal. It was a test, maybe. A coded offer? His mind raced through the possibilities, the old detective instincts parsing her words, her body language, the subtle placement of her feet.

He gave her a grin that was all teeth and no joy. "I tend to fly solo, thanks all the same." His tone was light, but his hand had moved subtly to the pocket of his jacket where he kept a piece of cold steel, just in case.

She straightened up, the smile finally slipping from her face. "Let me know if you change your mind," she said, before moving on to the next row, leaving a trail of cheap perfume and confusion in her wake.

Frank watched her go, his mind churning. He didn't like it. Not one bit. It felt like the society's handiwork, the kind of stunt they'd pull. Using a dame to throw you off the scent, to test your mettle. Or maybe she was just a gal working a lousy job, trying to make it interesting. But in Frank's experience, things were rarely that simple.

He turned his attention back to the other passengers, trying to spot any more anomalies, any more pieces that didn't fit the jigsaw of this airborne charade. The businessman was still sweating, the mother was still playing games with her child, and Destiny... she was watching him now, a knowing look in her eyes that said she'd seen more than she was letting on.

Frank sighed and leaned back in his seat, the familiar weight of his gun an odd comfort against his ribs. He might be ten thousand feet in the air, but he was still in the gutter, looking up at the stars, wondering which one was going to fall next.

The aisle was a narrow gauntlet, each step Frank took felt like a chess move in a game where he didn't know the opponent. He squeezed past knees and elbows, the mumbled apologies of his passing barely covering the silent drum of his detective's intuition. The air was stale, recycled breath mixed with the faint aroma of reheated meals and the sharper tang of fear. It was the fear that interested Frank. It was a note that played wrong in this airborne symphony, a discordant beat that matched the one hammering in his chest.

He passed the flight attendant, her eyes catching his for a moment too long, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. Her smile was a painted-on thing, as genuine as a three-dollar bill. Frank gave her a nod that was as empty as the courtesy drinks they'd serve later, and continued his slow progress to the back of the plane.

The restroom door was a flimsy barrier to the world, but it was enough of a pretext for Frank to stand, watch the reflections in the metal, and take stock of the cabin behind him. There was a rhythm to the passengers—a cough here, a laugh there, the rustle of a magazine page turning. It was the mundane melody of people trapped together, hurtling through the sky in a metal tube, pretending that this was normal.

The flight attendant approached him again, her steps silent on the carpeted floor. "Is everything alright, Mr. Baxter?" Her voice was low, a whisper meant for his ears only. It carried the weight of something unspoken, a message wrapped in concern.

Frank turned to face her, leaning back against the small sink. "Just stretching my legs," he said, his voice equally hushed. "You know, you might want to check on that businessman a few rows back. He looks like he's about to jump out of his skin."

She didn't glance back. "We're trained to handle nervous flyers, Mr. Baxter. But I'm more concerned about you."

"Oh?" Frank's hand was casual by his side, but every muscle was tensed, ready.

"Let's not play games," she said, her eyes darting to the door, then back to him. "You're not here for the in-flight entertainment. You're looking for something, or someone. And I can help you."

Frank's mind raced. Was she a plant, a society spy sent to test him, to throw him off? Or was she on the level, an ally in a place where he expected none? In his line of work, trust was as rare as an honest politician, and twice as dangerous.

"Why should I trust you?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

"Because, Mr. Baxter," she said, a shadow of something like fear flickering across her features, "I'm not just a flight attendant. And you're not just a passenger. We both know this flight is more than it seems. And I think we both want it to land safely."

Frank held her gaze, searching for the lie, the tell that would give her away. But all he found was the hard glint of truth. Or at least, something close enough to it.

Frank's reply was a half-cocked smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. "Alright, doll. Say I'm buying what you're peddling. Why would you help me?"

Before she could answer, the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. Passengers gasped as the aircraft shuddered violently, a cocktail shaker in the sky. The attendant lost her footing, grabbing Frank's arm to steady herself. Her sleeve rode up, and there it was—a tattoo, an intricate weave of dark lines that Frank recognized: the mark of the society.

The sight of it was like a gut punch, a silent confirmation of all the bad feelings he'd been toting around like extra baggage. "Playing for both sides, or just looking to score a point for the home team?" Frank's voice was acid, burning away the pretense.

Her eyes flashed a warning. "You don't understand—"

But Frank was done talking. He reached for her arm, intent on getting more answers, when she twisted like a cat, a switchblade suddenly in her hand where none had been before. The blade caught the light as it arced towards Frank's face, a silver crescent that promised pain.

He jerked back, but not fast enough. The knife scored his cheek, a line of fire that started to drip red. The sudden proximity of death was a clarion call, and Frank Baxter answered it. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist, squeezing with all the desperation of a man who knew this might be his last chance.

They grappled, a dance of survival, knocking into the narrow walls of the restroom. The door burst open, and they spilled out into the aisle, a tangle of limbs and primal struggle. Passengers screamed, a symphony of fear as the attendants and some braver souls tried to intervene.

In the chaos, Frank caught a glimpse of Destiny. She was on her feet, her eyes wide with shock—or was it recognition? He couldn't tell. All he knew was the blade that kept flashing, hungry for more than just a piece of him.

He managed to land a punch, felt the jolt up his arm as it connected with her jaw. She stumbled, the knife clattering to the floor. Frank's hand was slick with his own blood as he reached for the weapon, knowing this had to end, and fast.

But the plane chose that moment to lurch again, a sickening drop that sent everyone flying. Frank hit the deck, his hand closing over the switchblade. He rolled, coming up with the knife in hand just as the attendant lunged for him, her face a mask of rage and something darker, something desperate.

It was a stand-off, the two of them panting, bloodied, the knife between them, and an audience of terrified passengers. Frank's cheek stung with a pain that felt like truth. He had his weapon, his wits, and now, a face that would tell a tale whether he wanted it to or not.

"You're done," Frank growled, the blade steady in his grip. "The next move is yours, but make it a smart one. Because I swear, if you come at me again, it won't be just a scratch next time."

The flight attendant, breathing hard, her own face smeared with makeup and sweat, met his gaze. There was a moment where everything hung in the balance, a single breath where the outcome was undecided. Then, slowly, she raised her hands, the fight draining out of her.

Frank didn't relax, didn't dare. This was just the opening gambit, the first move in a game that was far from over. He was sure of one thing, though: the flight to Cairo was going to be a rough ride.

Frank's eyes never left hers as he fished for something to bind her hands. The cabin was a hive of panic, the passengers a chorus of gasps and shrill cries. The flight attendant saw her chance in his momentary distraction; her knee came up hard and fast, connecting with his gut. Breath whooshed out of Frank like a punctured tire, and as he doubled over, she swung a vicious right hook.

It landed with the sound of a wet rag hitting the wall, and stars burst in Frank's vision. She was on him before he could straighten up, the two of them tumbling into the aisle. The plane seemed to buck and roll just to join the fun, banking hard as the pilot fought to keep her steady.

A glint of metal caught Frank's eye — the flight attendant had pulled a gun from somewhere. His blood ran cold; a bullet here could turn the blue sky black with death for all of them. He lunged for her hand, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, forcing the barrel away from the passengers, away from the fuselage.

The fight was silent film stuff — all broad swings and jerky motions, the roar of the engines drowning out the grunts and thuds. But the gun was a different story; it spoke a language everyone understood. The first shot went wide, a deafening crack that sucked the air out of the cabin. Passengers screamed, throwing themselves to the floor, clambering over each other in a desperate scramble for cover.

A mother shielded her child, her lullabies drowned out by the chaos. The businessman's prayers were silent, his lips moving feverishly as he clutched his briefcase like a shield. Destiny was shouting something, her voice lost as another shot rang out, the bullet burying itself in the overhead compartment with a thud and a puff of insulation.

Frank's hand slipped in his own blood, but he kept his grip tight, twisting the flight attendant's wrist. She was strong, desperation lending her a wild edge, but Frank had been fighting dirty since she was in pigtails. He headbutted her, a quick, savage motion that rocked her back on her heels.

The gun clattered away down the aisle, sliding beneath a seat. Frank didn't chase it — he knew the rules. When a gun hits the floor, the one who goes for it usually ends up dead. Instead, he tackled her to the ground, pinning her with his body as the plane shook with another bout of turbulence.

"Stay down!" he barked at the passengers, playing cop now, the badge he no longer wore burning like a brand on his soul. "Nobody move!"

The flight attendant bucked beneath him, but Frank was an immovable object, his center of gravity low, his determination an anchor. Her eyes were wild, the whites showing all around. She had the look of a cornered animal, but Frank had faced down worse in back alleys and smoky bars where the only rule was survival.

The plane leveled out, the pilot's voice crackling over the intercom, a calm that was as false as the attendant's earlier smile. They were flying straight and true again, but the peace was as shattered as the safety instructions strewn across the floor. Frank held the flight attendant's gaze, letting her see the promise of pain in his own. "You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to the ground," he hissed. "And I'm not talking about landing."

In the chaos, the flight attendant's hand snaked out like a striking cobra, her fingers closing around the gun's grip with a deadly certainty. Frank's head swiveled just as the gun's muzzle flashed, the report loud as a judgment day trumpet. The bullet screamed past, a messenger of death missing its mark by mere inches.

The cabin erupted in fresh pandemonium, the passengers' terror a tangible thing, a living beast with a thousand hearts hammering in unison. Another shot rang out, this time finding a home. Not in Frank, but in the cockpit, the bullet puncturing the thin door like a hot knife through butter.

The plane lurched violently, a beast wounded, its roar turning to a howl. The nose dipped, and the horizon did a sickening tilt, the blue sky and the distant earth trading places in a dizzying dance. Screams filled the cabin, a chorus of primal fear as the plane began its dive.

Frank's gut clenched, a reaction honed from too many close calls. The attendant was on her feet now, gun in hand, eyes wide with the madness of the moment. Frank moved, not away from the danger but towards it, his body a missile of flesh and bone.

They collided, the gun going off again, the bullet's path one of destruction and terror. The flight attendant fought like a wild thing, but Frank's arms were iron bands, his resolve a thing carved from the bedrock of his soul.

The plane was a nosedive nightmare, the G-forces pinning them as they struggled. Oxygen masks dropped, dangling like surreal fruit from a metallic tree. Frank heard the pilot's voice, a strangled gurgle over the intercom, then silence. The co-pilot's frantic attempts to steady the craft were a backdrop to the life-or-death tango in the aisle.

Frank's hand found the gun, his fingers wrapping around the attendant's. He twisted, a move born of desperation, and the gun went off for the final time. The bullet didn't matter. It was lost in the cacophony, another secret in a flight full of them.

The plane's angle was steep, a slide down into oblivion. Frank felt the attendant's resistance wane, her strength ebbing, but he didn't ease up. Not yet. Not until he could be sure the threat was neutralized, that the danger was past.

With the finality of the gun's discharge ringing in his ears, Frank Baxter wrenched the weapon away and shoved the flight attendant aside, her body thudding against the aisle's carpeted floor. She lay still, the fight drained out of her like water from a busted pail.

Frank didn't waste a second. He bolted towards the cockpit, the screams and cries of the passengers a fading background noise as his focus narrowed. The cockpit door was ajar, swinging slightly with the erratic movements of the plane. He pushed through, the scene inside carving itself into his memory with the sharpness of a stiletto's edge.

The pilot was slumped over the controls, his headset dangling loosely, a lifeless sentinel. The co-pilot was sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, a growing dark patch on his uniform speaking silent volumes. Both were victims of stray bullets. Frank's heart hammered a riotous beat. No time for shock, no time for grief. He had a plane to fly.

His hands were steady as he eased the pilot's body back from the yoke, a silent apology on his lips for the indignity. He had flown a few times in the war, nothing fancy, just enough to know the sky was a different beast than the streets he was used to. The controls seemed to mock him, a labyrinth of dials and switches and gauges that held the lives of everyone on board in their indifferent grasp.

The plane was still descending, the altimeter's unwinding numbers a countdown to oblivion. Frank grabbed the yoke, his mind a whirlwind of half-remembered instructions and gut instinct. He leveled it out, the force fighting him like a living thing.

"Come on, you big tin can," he muttered, coxing the beast as if it were a stubborn mule. The nose of the plane lifted, sluggish but compliant, the horizon righting itself with grudging obedience.

His breath came in short bursts, the sweat on his brow cold as the air around him. He scanned the panel, looking for anything that resembled a radio. He found it, flicking it on and adjusting the frequency. Static greeted him like the hiss of a cat before words began to break through.

"Mayday, mayday," Frank's voice was calm, the calm of a man walking a tightrope over a chasm. "This is flight two-one-seven. The pilot and co-pilot are down. Repeat, they are down. I am an unqualified passenger at the controls. Requesting immediate assistance."

The response was crackling, a voice edged with the strain of trying to remain professional in the face of catastrophe. "Flight two-one-seven, we read you. Keep the plane level. We're here to help you bring her in."

Frank's hands were glued to the yoke, his whole world narrowed to the slipstream of air that was the only thing between them and a nosedive into the great blue yonder. It was down to him, a gumshoe detective with a penchant for trouble, to play savior in the clouds.

Fate had a twisted sense of humor, and right now, the joke was on Frank Baxter.

Frank's knuckles were white on the yoke, his jaw set hard enough to break teeth. He'd walked into more traps and dodged more bullets than most men could say, but this? This was a whole new dance card, one he hadn't signed up for.

Outside, the sky was an endless blue, but it offered no comfort. It was just a backdrop to the potential spiral that hung over them like a sword. Frank's eyes flicked over the instrument panel, each dial and readout a mystery he didn't have time to solve. He needed to keep this bird in the air, keep her steady, and pray that the voice on the other end of the radio could talk him through the rest.

The plane had steadied, but it was like riding a bronco — any moment it could buck, and they'd all be tossed into the abyss. He could hear the cabin behind him, the cacophony of fear a living thing. It was time to be more than the guy with the gun and the fast talk. It was time to be the guy they needed.

With a breath that tasted like copper and engine oil, Frank reached for the intercom. "Ladies and gents," he began, his voice the gravelly calm of a man who had stared down the business end of a .45 more than once, "this is Frank Baxter. You might remember me from such hits as 'the tussle in the aisle' and 'who needs pilots anyway?'"

A few choked laughs filtered through the panic, the absurdity a lifeline in the madness.

"I know we're riding a little rough," Frank continued, his hand steady on the yoke as he coaxed the plane through a gentle turn, "but I want you to know that we've got folks helping us out from the ground. And I've been in tighter spots than this."

That was a lie, but it was the kind they needed.

"So here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna stay calm, we're gonna stay seated, and we're gonna ride this out together. I need you to trust me, like I'm trusting the voice in my ear telling me how not to turn us into a smoking crater."

He glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Destiny. Her eyes were locked on his, and he saw something there. Not the fear that was etched into every other face, but something hard and determined. He nodded to her, a silent pact made in the moment.

"Keep your belts fastened, and if you're the praying type, now's a good time to start. If not, just think happy thoughts. Me? I'm thinking about a nice, stiff drink on solid ground."

He clicked off the intercom and focused on the horizon. The voice on the radio was a calm constant, guiding him through each adjustment. The plane responded, a stubborn mule that was beginning to trust its handler.

"Okay, big girl," he murmured to the plane. "Let's see if we can't find a nice patch of earth to kiss."

Frank Baxter had walked through fire and come out the other side, but flying? That was something else. Still, if fate wanted to throw him to the wolves, he'd show it that he could fly.

The plane was a temperamental dame, but Frank was getting the measure of her, his hands steady on her curves. The horizon was a fixed line, a promise of calm, when a shadow flitted across it. A dark cloud, moving against the wind. Frank squinted, the distance playing tricks on his eyes.

Then it hit him — not the trick of distance, but the realization. Birds. A whole flock of them, seagulls, riding the thermal highway. Any pilot worth his salt might have seen them, might have turned or climbed or done something. Frank was fresh out of pilot's salt.

The birds hit like a barrage of feathery bullets, a white cloud of chaos. The thumps were sickening, organic, as they collided with the plane. One, two, countless strikes, a frenzied drumroll against the metal beast.

The engines coughed, choked, and then screamed — a twin wail of dying turbines that sent a shiver down the spine of the plane. The cockpit filled with warning lights, a Christmas tree of doom blinking red.

With the engines gone, the plane was a glider, and not a good one. Frank's heart raced, a drumbeat syncing with the plummeting altimeter. He was in a dive with no power, no engines, nothing but air and hope and rapidly approaching sea.

He reached for the intercom, pushing down the bile of fear. "Folks," he said, his voice a forced calm that sounded like he was trying to sell them on this idea, "remember that stiff drink I mentioned? Well, make it a double. Looks like we're going in for a swim."

A few screams pierced the cabin, but most were silent, the shock too deep for noise. Frank's hands were on the yoke, his every sense tuned to the machine and the empty space ahead.

"Brace for impact," he said, a line he'd heard in movies, never thinking he'd be the one to say it. "And if anyone asks, I've flown worse."

It was a lie, of course. Frank had never flown anything before today. But they didn't need to know that. What they needed was a hero, and Frank Baxter was all they had.

He angled the plane, trying to level it out, to turn the dive into a glide. The ocean was a blue expanse below, deceptively calm. He aimed for the seam between sky and water, the controls resistant in his hands.

The altimeter was a countdown now, the numbers dropping too fast. Frank's grip on the yoke was a lifeline, his knuckles white, his jaw set. This was it, the moment of truth, where the rubber met the road — or in this case, where the plane met the sea.

The surface rushed up to meet them, the plane's shadow racing across the water like a dark omen. Frank held the controls steady, whispered a prayer to a god he wasn't sure was listening, and braced for the crash. The ocean loomed large, a wall of water that was about to become their salvation or their tomb.

The plane hit the water, and the world turned to white noise and shattering force. Frank's last thought before the darkness rushed in was of Isabella's face, the way she'd smile in the morning light. Then impact, and nothing else.