"Whose suitcase is this?" a bored voice barked before engines and luggage made sense.
"That one," said a man from the Dawn entourage, pointing without looking. "Number twelve."
"Number twelve belongs to my drummer," another voice snapped. "You took ours."
"Calm down," the translator muttered, juggling a tablet and a stack of passports. "Calm down or we get nothing moved."
"Calm down?" Dawson Martin shoved a duffel under his arm and laughed too loud. "Who says calm in an airport? I say find the right bag."
Leah Gross stepped between a line of men in leather jackets and two airport workers holding a pile of identical black suitcases. She had the look of someone used to moving in and out of chaos—hair tied back, cap pulled low, a tote bag with a D.I.D. sticker. Her voice was flat and small, and it cut through the noise.
"Which team is Dawn?" she asked in French, then switched to English when the translator indicated. "Point the ones with the stickers."
"That's them," said a man with a Dawns wristband. "Why do you—"
"Because," Leah said, "the bags with the yellow tape are not your band's. Look." She crouched, peeled the tape, and held up a hotel tag the size of a palm. "These were checked under a corporate name. S.R. transfers. Someone dropped a manifest."
A woman in a blazer, clearly the manager, scoffed. "Are you a customs officer now?"
"No," Leah said. "I'm a
