Daniel looked at the monitor.
"That someone was manipulating the airport's passenger records."
Robert frowned.
"Why?"
"Because of the complaints."
He opened a file.
The same complaints he had come to investigate.
Twenty-three reports.
Different passengers.
Different dates.
Different employees.
But the same terminal.
Robert looked through them.
"They're all from here."
"Yes."
"Most were already closed."
"Exactly."
Robert opened one.
Complaint resolved — passenger educated on policy.
Daniel frowned.
"Who marked this resolved?"
Robert checked.
"Customer Experience Compliance."
"Name?"
"Elena Voss."
Daniel's expression changed.
Robert noticed.
"You know her?"
"Yes."
"Is she involved?"
"I don't know."
Claire looked at the reports.
"Some of those complaints were about me."
Daniel looked at her.
"How many?"
"Three."
"Why weren't they escalated?"
"I don't know."
Daniel looked at Robert.
"Pull the original versions."
Robert searched.
The system loaded.
Then displayed an error.
FILE NOT FOUND.
Robert frowned.
"That's impossible."
"Try another."
He opened the next.
Same message.
Another.
Same.
Daniel leaned closer.
"Someone deleted the originals."
Robert shook his head.
"They can't be deleted."
"Why?"
"Because the complaint archive is immutable."
Daniel looked at him.
"Then someone bypassed the archive."
Robert's face tightened.
"That's not supposed to be possible."
Daniel smiled faintly.
"We seem to be saying that a lot today."
Suddenly, Claire's phone vibrated.
She looked down.
A message.
Her face went pale.
Daniel noticed.
"What's wrong?"
She handed him the phone.
The message contained one sentence.
STOP HELPING HIM.
Daniel looked at her.
"Who sent this?"
"I don't know."
"Can you trace it?"
Robert shook his head.
"Burner number."
Another message appeared.
YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT DANIEL CROSS IS.
Claire stared.
Then another:
ASK HIM ABOUT HIS FATHER.
Daniel froze.
Robert looked at him.
"Your father?"
Daniel slowly took the phone.
He read the message again.
Nobody in the airport should have known about his father.
His father had been dead for sixteen years.
And Daniel had never discussed him with anyone at work.
He looked at the sender number.
Nothing.
Then a final message appeared.
HE NEVER TOLD YOU WHY HE LEFT.
Daniel's expression hardened.
Robert asked quietly:
"Daniel?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
Daniel ignored him.
"How many people know my family history?"
Robert shook his head.
"I don't know."
"Find out."
Robert began typing.
Daniel turned toward the window.
For the first time that morning, the airport felt different.
He had spent years believing his past was separate from his work.
Now someone was proving that it wasn't.
His father had worked in aviation systems.
Not as an executive.
As an engineer.
He had designed security infrastructure for several regional airports before disappearing from Daniel's life.
Daniel had been sixteen.
His father had left one evening and never returned.
The official explanation had been simple.
A workplace accident.
Daniel had never believed it.
But he had stopped asking questions.
Until now.
Robert interrupted.
"I found something."
Daniel turned.
"What?"
"Your father's name appears in the old airport archive."
Daniel's eyes narrowed.
"What name?"
"Thomas Cross."
Daniel stopped.
"That's impossible."
Robert shook his head.
"It's here."
He turned the monitor.
A personnel file appeared.
THOMAS CROSS
SYSTEMS ENGINEER
EMPLOYEE STATUS: TERMINATED
DATE: 2009
Daniel stared.
"Open it."
Robert clicked.
The file loaded.
There was almost nothing.
No photograph.
No employment history.
No termination reason.
Just one note.
IDENTITY REVOKED.
Daniel's face went cold.
"Identity revoked?"
Robert nodded.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
Daniel looked at the date.
Sixteen years ago.
The year his father disappeared.
He stared at the screen.
"Why would an airport revoke an employee's identity?"
Robert did not answer.
Then another file appeared automatically.
No one had opened it.
No one had clicked anything.
It simply appeared.
THOMAS CROSS — FINAL ACCESS LOG
Robert leaned toward the screen.
The log displayed one entry.
03:17:44 — ACCESS GRANTED — TERMINAL FOUR — EXECUTIVE NETWORK
Daniel felt the room become colder.
"Who authorized it?"
Robert clicked.
The authorization field was blank.
"No name."
"Try the credential hash."
Robert did.
A string appeared.
Daniel stared.
He recognized the first six characters.
They were part of his own executive credential.
Robert looked at him.
"Your father's last access used the same credential family as yours."
Daniel's jaw tightened.
"My father wasn't an executive."
"Not officially."
Daniel looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
Robert hesitated.
"I mean there are classifications in the old system that aren't visible in the current employee database."
Daniel leaned closer.
"Show me."
Robert opened an archival index.
Thousands of records appeared.
Then he searched for Thomas Cross.
One result.
PROJECT MERIDIAN
Status:
RESTRICTED
Daniel stared at the screen.
"What is Project Meridian?"
Robert shook his head.
"I've never heard of it."
Daniel pointed at the access date.
"What happened at 3:17?"
"I don't know."
"Then find out."
Robert entered another command.
The archive rejected it.
ACCESS DENIED.
Robert tried his supervisor credentials.
Rejected.
He tried operations administrator.
Rejected.
Daniel looked at him.
"Use mine."
Robert hesitated.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He entered Daniel's credentials.
The archive opened.
But instead of revealing Project Meridian, the screen went black.
Then a sentence appeared.
AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED.
A second line appeared.
WELCOME, THOMAS.
Daniel's heart stopped.
Robert stared.
"Why does it call you Thomas?"
Daniel whispered:
"Because it thinks I'm him."
The system loaded an old video file.
The image was grainy.
Black-and-white.
A corridor.
A man walked through it.
Daniel recognized him immediately.
His father.
Thomas Cross.
He was younger than Daniel remembered.
Maybe forty.
He stopped in front of a security camera.
Then looked directly into the lens.
His lips moved.
No audio.
Daniel leaned toward the screen.
"What is he saying?"
Robert enhanced the footage.
The image sharpened.
Thomas mouthed the words again.
This time Daniel could read them.
If you're seeing this, they finally found you.
Daniel stepped backward.
Robert stared at him.
"Who are they?"
The video continued.
Thomas looked frightened.
Not professionally worried.
Not irritated.
Terrified.
He held up a small metal key.
Then pointed toward the camera.
His lips moved.
Gate Forty-One.
The video ended.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then the terminal lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Every screen in the office went black.
Claire gasped.
Robert reached for his radio.
Daniel raised one hand.
"Don't."
A single monitor came back online.
A message appeared.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT THE PAST ALONE.
Then:
NOW YOU KNOW TOO MUCH.
Daniel looked at Robert.
"How long until someone realizes we're here?"
Robert checked his watch.
"Maybe two minutes."
Daniel nodded.
"Then we have two minutes."
"To do what?"
Daniel picked up the black access card.
"Find out what my father hid."
They left the office.
And for the first time in sixteen years, Daniel Cross walked toward Gate 41.
Gate 41
Gate 41 sat at the far end of Terminal Four, beyond a row of unused boarding areas and a maintenance corridor most passengers never noticed.
Its sign had been turned off.
The gate itself was empty.
No passengers.
No crew.
No flight information.
Just rows of dark seats and a silent boarding desk.
Daniel walked slowly.