Flight 409 - Los Angeles to Paris

Three hours into the overnight flight from Los Angeles, the cabin had settled into a quiet hum—engines droning, aisle lights dim, most passengers half-asleep.

Leon Kennedy sat in 17C, looking like any other traveler in dark jeans and a worn leather jacket. In truth, he was the U.S. air marshal assigned to this flight, disguised as a civilian while keeping a watchful eye on the cabin. He’d spent most of the journey quietly scanning the rows, noting faces, patterns, and movements—habits honed over years of high-stakes security work.

He was about to stand for coffee when a sharp gasp cut through the stillness.

“Where is she? Where is she?!”

Two rows ahead, a woman had bolted upright. Her blanket lay on the floor, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the straps of an empty child’s seat beside her.

“My baby—my daughter was right here—she was just here—”

Leon was already on his feet, moving with calm, deliberate purpose down the aisle. He crouched beside her, voice low but steady, the authority beneath it unmistakable.

“Ma’am, take a breath. I’m here to help. Tell me exactly what happened.”