Ladies and gentleman, my name is Donna Stone, and I’m your flight attendant today. On behalf of Captain Jack Craig and myself, I’d like to welcome you aboard—

The flight from hell.

At this time, I’d like to demonstrate the safety features of this aircraft—

Oh, who am I kidding? There are no safety features! Not for you, anyway.

For example, under normal circumstances, you should fasten your seat belt upon take-off, landing, and turbulence. To do so, you’ll insert the metal fitting into the buckle, and tighten by pulling on the loose end of the strap. To release, just lift the upper portion of the buckle. In your case, however, I’d advise you to keep your belt on at all times, especially when we reach our maximum cruising altitude of fifty-one-thousand feet—

At which point I will push the ejection button that propels you out of one of the emergency exits on our aircraft, which you’ll find both forward and aft.

Because of the inevitable drop in cabin pressure, the safety mask will have fallen from the ceiling. If pulling the elastic band around your head prior to extending the rubber hose gives you some comfort to imagine falling safely and soundly into a pillowy cloud, I say go for it.

Better yet: say a prayer.

Oh, and don’t bother taking a bracing position—that is, leaning forward with your hands on top of your head, and your elbows against your thighs—

Because, in this situation, there are no happy landings!

“Welcome aboard!” I smile sweetly as I greet Acme Air’s one and only passenger, Edgar Bowden, a.k.a., Teddy Grodin, a.k.a. the guy who’s on the lam for leaking classified intel to the press regarding PRISM—the National Security Administration’s unwarranted surveillance program, which monitors phone calls, texts and emails moving between the United States, Europe and Middle Eastern countries.

In other words, in a post-911 world, Teddy took it upon himself to remind the rest of us that Big Brother is watching, listening, and reading up on us.

Like, duh. After that other government-contractor-turned-notorious-whistleblower, Edward Snowden, you’d think this was old news by now.

Okay so yeah, it’s possible that some techno-nerds in the basement cubicle of a CIA surveillance contractor know about your Tinder.com hookup last night.

Awkward.

It may have been a crisis of conscience that inspired Teddy to open up to the press, but unlike Snowden it was the impulse to bulk up his bank account that now has him jet-setting between Ho Chi Minh City and his final destination, Moscow, via this tricked-out Gulfstream G650 luxury jet.

His ride has been provided by some wealthy corporate admirer from Iceland.

At least, that’s what Teddy thinks.

By the time we land, Teddy will have given me what my employer—the black ops contractor Acme Industries—needs to know: where he’s stashed the intel, and what unfriendly nations already have their grubby paws on it.

Teddy’s bulk makes it difficult for him to climb the air stairs. My role as his sky geisha means rewarding his efforts with adoring glances and come-hither smiles. By the way in which Teddy’s eyes sweep over my coffee, tea or me flight attendant attire—a body-hugging blouse with a plunging neckline, tucked into hot pink short-shorts—it’s obvious that he wouldn’t mind conducting his own unauthorized surveillance on me, once we’re several miles high in the sky. Nothing says “Come fly with me” like thigh-high boots with a stacked heel. The drool glistening on Teddy’s lips is proof of that.

But Teddy’s way of playing it cool is to pat my ass, then shush me with a wave of his hand so that he can listen to his newly-acquired WME talent agent on his cell phone. “Summit wants Chris fucking
Pine
to play me in the movie? No! Hell, no! Ari, I told you, either it’s Gosling, or Scorsese can take a walk…Okay,
maybe
Leo DiCaprio.” Teddy gives me a wink as he clicks off his cell phone. “Sorry, babe. That’s life in the fast lane when you’re a hero, right?”

He figures I don’t read
Deadline Hollywood
. Scuttlebutt has it that Jonah Hill has been talked about for the lead, but now that I’m standing up close and in person, Jason Segel is definitely a better choice.

So, this nerdy nobody, this tall, bulky man-boy, is now considered a human rights rock star? Give me a break. But since this mission calls for me to play along, I blink my fake lashes innocently and ask, “Really? Are you someone famous?”

“You could say that.” He reaches into his valise to pull out newspapers and magazines from countries all over the globe with his homely mug on the covers. “I’ve just blown the whistle on our government’s biggest cover-up. Did you know Uncle Sam has been conducting unwarranted surveillance on our phones and emails?”

Yep. But only since 911—unless you count the J Edgar Hoover years, of course.

Truth of the matter is that Teddy’s very public revelation is old news. PRISM is just its latest—and apparently its not-so-greatest—reincarnation. Heck, back in 2006,
USA Today
reported that the NSA had already built a database with intel accessed knowingly from communications carriers like AT&T, Verizon and Bell South.

Too bad the article wasn’t in the
Life
section of the paper. The public wouldn’t have been so taken with Teddy’s bullshit if they kept up with our government’s policies with the same zeal as they use to follow the Kardashians, the Royals or Honey Booboo.

“Then I guess that makes you the most famous person I’ve ever serviced—I mean, served.” I giggle coquettishly at my very obvious faux pas.

The smirk comes off his face when I add, “But I doubt you’re the richest.”

“I’ll take that bet.” He makes a big show of looking at his watch. “Or I will by this time tomorrow. By then, I may be one of the richest men in the world.”

I giggle. “Why? Is some old lady going to die and leave you her fortune?”

“Let’s just say I’ve got something a lot of people want.”

I look down at his crotch. “Care to be more specific?”

He actually blushes at my forwardness. “That’s why we’re leaving China now, and headed to Russia. President Xi was
very
interested in buying what I’ve got to sell. Putin is, too. Ha! Maybe I’ll trade it for the Super Bowl ring he lifted off of the New England’s Patriot’s owner.” He drops his eyes in the chasm of my cleavage. “When we land, come with me to my hotel. Trust me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Just then, Jack Craig—my mission leader—comes out of the cockpit. In his sharply creased pilot’s uniform with his brimmed cap at a jaunty angle, he certainly looks like the real thing.

For my sake, anyway, here’s hoping that’s the case, once we’re airborne.

Jack salutes our one-and-only passenger. “Once we get above this low ceiling, we should have a smooth flight all the way into Domodedovo Airport, where a limo will be waiting to take you into Moscow’s city center.”

Teddy shrugs. Since the leak, he’s used to everyone kowtowing in awe, especially those who serve him. We’re merely cockroaches under his heel. Even more so, should his plan succeed.

I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that Teddy fails.

As we take off, my safety spiel is more flirtatious than serious. I spread my legs before snapping the buckle on the seat belt hard, like a dominatrix shackling her favorite bottom. I purse my lips and allow them to linger on the blow hole of the flotation device. I can hear Jack chuckling into my earbud. He’s watching via the cabin’s hidden video cams.

When I open my arms wide to point out the safety exits, my breasts defy gravity, jutting high, front and center, thanks to Victoria’s Secret Incredible push-up bra.

No surprise, Teddy’s eyes never leave my chest.

Until we hit turbulence.

At that point, his eyes widen with fear.

“Well, what do you know,” Jack mutters in my ear. “This dude is afraid to fly. This will be a piece of cake.”

That’s easy for him to say. He’s not the one out here in the main cabin, tarted up like a nerd’s Mile High Club wet dream.

For the past ten hours I’ve kept Teddy so busy with slap-and-tickle teasing and my “you're
sooooo
awesome” gushing that he hasn’t noticed we’re flying east, as opposed to west.

But he does notice when Jack jinks the plane—which (surprise, surprise) happens every time Teddy gets too frisky with me.

Now that we’re only an hour from SEA-TAC—where a battalion of NSA agents are waiting for us—it’s time to get what we need from Teddy: answers.

Jack jerks the plane to the right, a maneuver that has me toppling into Teddy’s lap—but I scurry away just as he barfs all over himself.

Thank goodness my boots are vinyl. I take one of the plane’s large cloth napkins and wipe off Teddy’s bile so that they don’t stink. Wish I could say the same about Teddy, but that would take a fireman’s hose, and unfortunately that’s the one thing this plane doesn’t have onboard.

“I’ve got to take a pill,” Teddy says, as he reaches for the valise in the chair beside him.

“Let me get you a glass of water.” My tone is reassuring. “That is, unless you’d like something a little stronger.”

“Water is…fine.” His pause is the result of another turbulent dip.

As I make my way to the kitchen galley, Jack is saying something to me, but there is too much interference coming through my earbud to pick it up.

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