"I asked what the fee was for. He tore up my boarding pass." Frank leaned forward. "Officer Adler. Is 'expedited verification' a real thing?"
Ruth hesitated — just a fraction, but Frank caught it. Twenty-eight years of reading people.
"Mr. Delaney," she said carefully, "I'm going to need to see some ID."
Frank reached into his wallet — past the driver's license, past the faded photo of his wife — and produced a second ID. Dark blue. No photo visible at this angle. He held it so only she could see.
Ruth Adler's face changed. The professional mask slipped, just for a second, revealing something underneath: surprise, and then — carefully controlled — alarm.
"That's — " She stopped. "Please wait here."
She left with the file. Frank sat back and closed his eyes. Cover's blown, he thought. Twelve hours into a two-week audit, and some kid with a lanyard just blew it over seventy-five dollars.
His phone rang. He knew the number.
"Delaney."
"Frank." The voice of Deputy Director Alan Cross, DHS — the man who'd sent him here. "We have a problem."
"We have several problems, Alan. Which one?"
"The torn ticket. It's — " A pause. "Frank, the agent filed a disorderly report. It's in the system. Your cover identity is now flagged nationwide."
Frank closed his eyes. "Of course it is."
"I'm pulling you out. The audit's compromised."
"No." Frank's voice went flat — the voice that had ended arguments in three time zones. "Alan. The fee was fake. I know fake. Which means something's wrong at Merritt, and it's not just a rude kid." He paused. "You want to pull me? Fine. But I'm staying. As myself."
"Frank — "
"My clearance is active. My commission is active." Frank stood — the room suddenly too small. "You sent me to audit security. I just found a breach. I'm not walking away because some punk tore my ticket."
Silence on the line. Then, quietly: "What do you need?"
"Everything you have on Aegis Secure. And a new boarding pass." Frank looked at the door. "Paper. My wife always said paper doesn't run out of battery."
Cross was quiet for a moment. Then: "Frank. The video."
"What video?"
"The torn ticket. Someone filmed it. It's — " Cross paused. "It's at eight hundred thousand views and climbing."
Frank closed his eyes. Eight hundred thousand. His cover — twelve hours old — was now content.
"Alan. I need you to understand something. The fee was fake. A shakedown. Which means Merritt has a corruption problem, and my audit just became a criminal investigation." He stood — the little room suddenly too small for the conversation. "You can pull me. But I'm telling you: this is the thread. Pull it."
"I know." Cross sighed — the sound of a man doing math he didn't like. "The Aegis file. I'll send what we have. It's thin — thinner than it should be, which tells you something."
"It tells me someone's been shredding."
"It tells me several someones." A pause. "Frank. Watch your back. If this is what I think it is — "
"I've been watching it for twenty-eight years." Frank hung up and sat back down.
Ruth returned — with the paper boarding pass, as requested, and a coffee she didn't have to bring.
"Mr. Delaney," she said. "I looked into the fee. Off the record." She glanced at the door. "Three other agents. Same pattern. Always the vulnerable ones. Always cash-preferred."
"How long?"
"A year. Maybe more." She sat across from him — the professional distance narrowing into something like alliance. "I filed two reports. They vanished."
"Who buried them?"
"The regional director." Her voice dropped. "Who now sits on Aegis's board."
Frank nodded slowly. The revolving door. The oldest corruption in the book.
"Ruth," he said. "I'm going to be straight with you. I'm DHS. Red Team. I came to audit the contractor." He met her eyes. "My cover's blown — the video saw to that. But the mission isn't. Will you help me?"
She stared at him for a long moment — at the flannel, the boots, the calm. Then she said, "I have sixteen months of notes. Dates, agents, manifests." She stood. "Let me get them."
As she left, Frank looked at the paper boarding pass in his hand. Paper doesn't run out of battery. Margaret, right as always.
He was going to need a lot of paper.
Chapter 3 — The Auditor
Frank Delaney's real biography fit in a file that most people would never see.
Twenty-eight years, Central Intelligence Agency — paramilitary operations, the sharp end. Then ten more as a DHS Red Team consultant: the man they sent into airports, ports, and power plants to find the holes. He posed as a passenger, a janitor, a lost tourist. He found the unlocked doors, the sleeping guards, the procedures nobody followed. Then he wrote the report, and someone fixed it, and he went home to his workshop and carved wooden rattles for a grandson he'd never met.
The Merritt audit was supposed to be routine. Two weeks. In and out. Check the new contractor, Cross had said. Aegis Secure took over screening support six months ago. We want to know if the money's well spent.
Frank had been there twelve hours. He'd found a fake fee, a torn ticket, and a nationwide flag on his cover. Routine, he thought, was overrated.
Ruth Adler returned with a new boarding pass — paper, as requested — and an expression he'd seen on good officers facing bad facts.
"Mr. Delaney," she said quietly. "Your credentials check out. I — " She stopped. "I owe you an apology. For the room."
"Forget it. You've got a job to do." Frank pocketed the boarding pass. "But Officer Adler — the fee. Is it real?"
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "No. It's not a Liberty Air policy. It's not a TSA policy. It's not anyone's policy."
"How long's it been happening?"
"I don't know." She met his eyes. "But I've heard things. Passengers complaining. Agents — certain agents — targeting certain people. The ones who look like they won't fight back."
"Like a sixty-two-year-old in flannel."
"Like that." She hesitated. "Mr. Delaney — can I ask what you're really doing here?"