Amara felt something loosen in her chest—not the pain that was worsening, but the isolation she’d felt since Derek’s shoe had made contact. She wasn’t alone. She had witnesses. She had allies.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Amara said, her voice strained as she released Derek’s wrist and stepped back.
The movement sent another wave of pain through her, stronger this time, and she gripped the seat back to stay upright. Jessica was at her side immediately, her hand on Amara’s elbow.
“Please sit down. You’re bleeding more.”
“I can’t sit,” Amara’s jaw clenched. “We haven’t taken off yet. I need to secure the suspect first.”
Judge Frost unbuckled her seatbelt with surprising agility for someone in her 70s. She moved into the aisle, positioning herself between Derek and the cockpit.
“Mr. Crawford,” she said, her voice calm but firm, “I strongly suggest you remain exactly where you are. I may be retired, but I still have friends at the bureau, and I promise you they’ll be very interested in why you kicked a pregnant FBI agent.”
Derek’s eyes darted around the cabin, panic seeping into his expression.
Amara recognized that look—panic mixed with calculation. She had seen it on suspects weighing their options, deciding whether to comply or escalate.
Her hand moved instinctively to her hip, where her service weapon usually sat—but she had checked it with her luggage, as per airline regulations. Stupid.
