Chapter 50: Amateurs

Later...

The cabin lights were dimmed to a golden hue, bathing the jet’s luxurious interior in a soft, serene glow. Carlos lay stretched across one of the cream-leather couches, his bare feet crossed at the ankles, his arms folded behind his head. The engine's hum was the only consistent sound, vibrating faintly through the walls like a deep purr, occasionally interrupted by turbulence that barely shook the bird-like craft.

His eyes were shut, face relaxed in a meditative trance. The jet glided like a phantom through the midnight sky, cutting through layers of dark cloud and wind like silk. He had tuned everything out— noise, stress, even time. Just stillness.

A hesitant throat-clearing broke the silence. Soft, deliberate. A figure stepped forward, casting a long shadow on the Persian rug that stretched beneath the couch.

Carlos's eyelid twitched. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

The SS agent standing in front of him adjusted his tie and cleared his throat again. “Sir… is there anything you’ll need me to get for you before we land in Nigeria? The flight will be eight hours.”

Carlos’s eyes snapped open. Cold. Sharp. Irritated.

He remained lay on the couch, eyes locked on the man like a lion who’d been stirred from sleep. “Do you think I wouldn’t know to ask if I wanted something fetched?”

The agent immediately dipped his head. “I’m… sorry, sir.”

“I don’t need your apology,” Carlos shot back, reclining again. “You can see I’m trying to rest. Can’t you?”

“I am truly sorry, sir.” The man bowed again, this time deeper, retreating slightly.

“Stop saying sorry. This isn’t about apology,” Carlos said, visibly disgusted. “Answer the damn question. Did you see me resting or not?”

The agent swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. I just thought— maybe— you might want something. I meant no offense…”

Carlos then sat up slowly. His body language was calm, but his presence suddenly felt dangerous.

“Come closer.”

The agent hesitated, then obeyed.

Carlos leaned forward, gaze locked, his voice now low and steady. “Will you answer my question properly, or do you want things get ugly right now?”

The agent’s face paled. “No, sir… I—I saw you resting.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. Then slowly leaned back into the couch, lying flat once again. He shut his eyes. “Good. Now get lost. And next time, if you ever interrupt my rest like that again, I swear—you won’t like the outcome.”

“Yes, sir.” With a shaky breath and one last bow, the SS agent turned and walked briskly out of the lounge area.

Carlos sighed, exhaling the tension and resuming his meditation. Slowly, the tautness in his face melted. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing. Eventually, sleep crept in— slow, dense, and quiet.

Three hours later, he stirred.

His hand moved first, groping lazily for his phone beside him. His eyes blinked open, brows furrowing at the sudden brightness of the screen. A hiss of frustration slipped from his lips.

“Fuck. 12:03?” he muttered, pushing himself upright. “I slept for three hours?”

He sat on the edge of the couch, his bare feet touching the thick carpet, and stretched with a groan. Arms above his head, back arched, spine cracking. He ran a hand over his face, brushing his dreads back, then rose to his full height.

The cabin lights flickered slightly as he walked through the aisle, past the bar, past the quiet security guards seated with heads slightly bowed. He reached the cockpit door and knocked twice— firm, commanding.

No answer.

He didn’t wait.

Carlos turned the knob and shoved the door open.

Inside, two pilots sat comfortably in their leather seats. The chief pilot was laughing at something the co-pilot had said. Both looked up abruptly, their expressions snapping into forced professionalism as Carlos entered.

He didn’t even wait for pleasantries.

“How long more?” Carlos asked, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

The chief pilot cleared his throat. “Uh, we should be arriving in Lagos in five hours, sir.”

Carlos’s face stiffened. “Five hours?”

The chief nodded.

Carlos took a slow step forward, eyes narrowing like a snake preparing to strike. “Five fucking hours?” he repeated, disbelief dripping from each syllable. “You’re telling me I’ve been asleep for three hours and we still have five hours left to go?”

“Sir, it’s an eight-hour flight. We’re right on track,” the pilot replied carefully.

Carlos scoffed, lips curling into a snarl. “On track? You call this on track? What the hell have you two been doing? You cruising or floating?!”

The cockpit grew tense.

Carlos then turned to the control panels, his voice rising. “Give this damn jet some speed. Step on it!”

The co-pilot— a soft-spoken woman in her mid-thirties— glanced at the chief, then cautiously said, “Sir… that wouldn't be safe.”

Carlos blinked slowly. “What did you say?”

“I said it wouldn’t be safe, sir.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You must think I’m joking. You know how much this jet cost me? You think I pay all this money just to crawl across the sky?”

She held her silence, knuckles turning white on the throttle.

Carlos took a step closer, voice dropping dangerously low. “Listen to me very carefully. Either you push this bird faster, or I will find someone who can. And I will personally see to it that the both of you are thrown off mid-air.”

The chief pilot didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.” He flipped a series of switches, and the engine's tone subtly deepened. The jet picked up pace.

Carlos pointed a finger between them. “If we’re not in Lagos in three hours, it’s going to be the head of you both.”

With that, he turned and slammed the cockpit door behind him.

“Amateurs,” he muttered under his breath. “Surrounded by goddamn amateurs.”

He walked back to the lounge, eyes narrowed in a tight squint. Everything about him screamed precision, control, and lethal dissatisfaction. He threw himself back onto the couch and snatched a remote off the armrest, flipping the massive screen on with a flick.

As the cabin filled with low orchestral music from the in-flight entertainment system, Carlos poured himself a glass of whiskey from the golden decanter beside him.

He took a sip, rolled it in his mouth, then whispered again, “Amateurs.”

And the jet surged forward into the night.