The fat woman was not a transvestite.
But she was even more revolting.
On her chest were scars the size of two adult human heads, meaning she had cut off her own breasts to hide those two packages of explosives.
This would have required considerable time, sustained planning, and sophisticated logistical support, possibly involving compromised registration systems.
Considering the ruthless socialite from before, also prepared for a suicide attack.
The way these people operated was strikingly similar to some extreme terrorist organizations from Dean's previous life—organizations so powerless they could only resort to extremism.
Dean suspected their target wasn't the people on the plane, but New York.
This is undoubtedly a huge political asset.
Hijacking a plane is nothing.
But preventing a terrorist attack that could draw global attention? That's something else entirely.
He's left four of them alive!
The co-pilot in the cockpit, the short young man whose hands had been crippled, and...
Dean abruptly turned his head, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at the frail girl curled up in a ball, her eyes coldly fixed on his back.
When the girl's gaze met Dean's, her heart nearly stopped in terror.
She quickly looked away, lowered her head, and stammered, "Don't kill me! I didn't see you kill that fat woman! Don't kill me to silence me!"
Her act is surprisingly convincing.
Even the surrounding passengers—men and women, old and young, all with hands raised and faces etched with fear—couldn't help but glance over, a palpable sense of shared vulnerability among them.
The phrase "silence me," in particular, was disturbingly effective.
They had all witnessed Dean's brutal enforcement.
Here in the States, the public harbored a natural distrust of Federation personnel.
Dean had no doubt that if he killed this girl now, some 'hero' among the crowd might charge forward to attack him as a group.
Too bad fakes are still fakes.
Without a shred of pity, Dean kicked the girl in the temple, knocking her unconscious. He then clapped his hands. "Alright, you can all turn and look this way now."
Once everyone was looking, Dean first displayed the scars and the two explosive packages on the dead fat woman's chest, making the crowd turn pale. Then, he lifted the unconscious girl and retrieved a 'button' from the lining of her sleeve.
In front of everyone, Dean spoke into the 'button,' "Catherine, announce that this is a terrorist's walkie-talkie!"
He repeated it twice.
That's right! This girl is the one who was communicating with the co-pilot before he was knocked out!
Dean had made a point of memorizing her voice.
Seconds later, Catherine's familiar voice came over the PA system.
Only then did everyone realize that the seemingly frail girl in Dean's hands was actually a member of this group of terrorists armed with guns and explosives...
The three remaining terrorists—two men and one woman—were expertly bound and gagged by Dean, then secured to the overhead luggage rack.
These three are more valuable alive.
After taking care of this, Dean called Charles, who was comforting his daughter, to one side.
Charles's gratitude towards this detective, who dealt out death without blinking, had transformed into awe.
He politely and somewhat distantly took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered one to Dean, and said gratefully, "Detective Dean, we owe you a great deal for this. Otherwise..."
Dean raised a hand, cutting Charles off.
With the cigarette dangling from his lips, Dean toyed with his Glock 17. He tilted his head back slightly, his face half-hidden in the interplay of light and shadow, and his voice was low as he asked, "Mind telling me what your objective is?"
"What?" Charles's pupils contracted sharply, though his face feigned confusion. "Detective Dean, I'm not sure I understand what you're asking."
Dean took out a lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a deep drag. Then, through a cloud of smoke, he said mildly, "As someone who never experienced a father's love, I don't want your daughter to lose her father either. I hope you can give me a satisfactory answer before this cigarette is finished."
With that, he ignored Charles, took out his cellphone, and seeing he had a signal, called Anthony.
Anthony was always quick to answer. "Dean, there's a lot of electrical interference on your end. Are you inside some large electronic device?"
"Yes, Mentor. I'm currently on a flight from Los Angeles to New York calling you. Here's the situation..."
Dean briefly explained what had happened to Anthony.
This matter might involve a terrorist organization, an extreme one at that.
Taking all the credit for this himself would be too much; he'd choke on it.
Besides, if this terrorist organization could arrange for suicide operatives on a plane, they could just as easily wipe out his entire family. It's better to let the Federation handle this headache.
After listening to Dean's account, Anthony was silent for a long moment before speaking. "I think I know who they are. I suggest you hand over all the credit. Don't get involved in this."
"Is it that troublesome?"
"Yes. Have you heard of the Kingdom of Heaven Sect?"
"No, but it sounds like some kind of religious faith."
"More or less," Anthony said, his tone becoming grave. "They are a very fanatical people, and also quite fortunate—the land beneath their feet is rich in 'black gold.' Unfortunately, they lack the power to protect it, so it has become a source of chaos. Some of them accepted their fate and eventually found freedom and wealth. Others, unified by religious ideology, formed several small nations opposing the United States Federation. And the Kingdom of Heaven Sect is their state religion!"
Dean was stunned for a moment, then realized Anthony meant oil.