Chapter 3 - MY DAUGHTER WAS PART OF THE MESSAGE
I had spent twelve years making enemies.
That list was not short.
Some wanted money.
Some wanted territory.
Some wanted revenge.
A few wanted me dead simply because their fathers had wanted the same thing.
But almost nobody knew I had once been a military pilot.
That narrowed the list.
“Who knows your background?” Aaron asked.
“The Navy.”
“Anyone else?”
“My organization.”
I hated the word in a cockpit full of professionals.
Organization.
A polite term for something neither of us needed explained.
Aaron studied me.
“What exactly do you do now?”
“Logistics.”
His expression said he was not stupid.
“Illegal logistics?”
“Sometimes.”
Jillian looked between us.
“You’re telling me whoever sabotaged this plane expected you to take the cockpit?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I stared at the coordinates.
“Because they need me alive.”
That was worse.
If they wanted me dead, destroying the aircraft was simpler.
Someone wanted control.
Then my phone buzzed.
No cellular service should have existed at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic.
But onboard Wi-Fi remained partially functional.
A message came through an encrypted app I had not opened in months.
UNKNOWN DEVICE.
One photograph.
Norah.
Sitting in 8B.
Taken minutes earlier.
My heart stopped.
Whoever sent it was inside the cabin.
Another message:
FOLLOW THE ROUTE.
Aaron saw my face.
“What?”
I showed Jillian.
She whispered:
“Oh my God.”
Then another message.
IF CREW ALERTS PASSENGERS, THE GIRL DIES FIRST.
Everything inside me went silent.
That old combat silence.
The place fear goes when there is no room for it.
I handed the phone to Jillian.
“Do not react.”
Her eyes filled.
“How can you—”
“Because whoever sent that photo is watching reactions.”
She forced herself still.
Good.
“Walk back normally.”
“Then what?”
“Check Norah without obviously checking Norah.”
“Okay.”
“Do not touch her.”
Jillian nodded.
She left.
Aaron looked at me.
“We need law enforcement.”
“We need to identify the person first.”
“There’s an air marshal.”
“Then if our attacker knows the flight details, they may know him too.”
Aaron stared at the flight instruments.
“We’re hundreds of miles from Ireland.”
“How long?”
“Just under two hours depending on conditions.”
“Alternates?”
“Shannon eventually. Possibly Keflavík depending on systems and fuel, but we need communications.”
We tried secondary radios.
HF produced intermittent static.
Then a voice broke through.
Not air traffic control.
Male.
Calm.
“Falcon One, maintain present heading.”
Aaron looked at me.
“That’s not our callsign.”
I knew the phrase.
Falcon One.
My old Navy tactical callsign.
No one had used it in nine years.
My hands became cold.
The voice continued.
“Do not attempt Shannon.”
I leaned toward the microphone.
“Identify yourself.”
A laugh.
Then:
“You always did hate following instructions, Lieutenant Hayes.”
Lieutenant.
Not boss.
Not Mr. Hayes.
Military rank.
This person had known me before Chicago.
Before organized crime.
Before Norah.
I stared into the darkness beyond the windshield.
“Who are you?”
Static.
Then:
“Ask yourself why you left the Navy.”
My stomach tightened.
I had officially resigned after a training accident.
Unofficially, because a mission I flew had killed four men who were not supposed to be there.
For nine years, I had believed faulty intelligence caused it.
The voice returned.
“It wasn’t bad intelligence.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“You were set up.”
Aaron looked at me.
The radio crackled.
“And the man who signed the order is sitting on your airplane.”
I turned toward the cockpit door.
May you like
One of the passengers aboard Flight 218 had destroyed my military career nine years earlier.
And apparently, tonight he intended to finish whatever he started.
