Chapter 5 - THE MAN WHO TOOK MY DAUGHTER
Every violent instinct I had spent seven years hiding from Norah came alive at once.
I wanted to tear the aircraft apart seat by seat.
That would get her killed.
So I breathed.
Once.
Twice.
Then looked at Jillian.
“Which compartment?”
She studied the photo.
“Could be aft crew rest. Could be cargo-access service space. Hard to tell.”
“Who can access them?”
“Crew codes.”
Stolen badge.
Stolen jacket.
Our saboteur had preparation.
Keane stood beside me.
“He wants me.”
“Yes.”
“Take me.”
“No.”
“Your daughter—”
“I heard the instruction.”
Keane stepped closer.
“If Meridian is here, they won’t hesitate.”
“I know exactly what people like them do.”
Because I had become one.
That truth tasted ugly.
We needed the attacker moving.
Visible.
I told Aaron to announce moderate turbulence.
Seat belts mandatory.
Cabin crew seated.
Anyone moving would stand out.
Then we sent Keane down the forward aisle.
Alone.
Or appearing alone.
I followed through the galley service corridor.
The air marshal, Jason Cole, covered the opposite side.
Keane approached the avionics access.
A voice came through his satellite phone.
“Open the panel.”
Keane obeyed.
“Inside.”
He climbed down.
I waited three seconds.
Then followed.
The avionics bay was cramped, loud, and filled with equipment racks.
Keane stood near the ladder.
No attacker.
Then a screen mounted illegally behind one equipment panel flickered on.
Live video.
Norah.
My heart slammed.
A masked man sat behind her.
“You were always predictable, Hayes.”
Voice altered.
“Where is she?”
“Close.”
“You hurt her, nothing you want survives.”
The masked man laughed.
“That is the Warren Hayes Chicago knows.”
Norah heard my voice through the feed.
“Dad?”
Everything inside me cracked.
“I’m here, peanut.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
The masked man grabbed her shoulder.
I forced my voice calm.
“Take your hand off her.”
“You are in no position—”
“Take your hand off my daughter.”
Something in my tone worked.
His hand moved.
“Better.”
Keane whispered:
“He needs something from the bay.”
The attacker heard.
“Very good, General.”
A diagram appeared.
One specific avionics module.
Keane stared.
“That’s flight-management hardware.”
The voice said:
“Remove it.”
Aaron had warned me that physically pulling systems in flight could make everything worse.
“Why?”
“Because it contains the route-memory buffer.”
Keane understood before I did.
“Evidence.”
The attacker wanted data stored inside the aircraft system.
“What evidence?”
Keane looked sick.
“Someone loaded Meridian files into this aircraft before departure.”
“How?”
“I did.”
I turned.
Keane reached slowly into his jacket.
Jason Cole raised his weapon.
“Hands!”
Keane removed a tiny storage device.
“I’ve been collecting evidence for nine years.”
“You brought it onto a passenger aircraft?”
“I was flying to London to meet investigators.”
The sabotage suddenly made sense.
Meridian did not choose our flight because of me.
They chose it because of Keane.
Then they discovered I was onboard.
An old scapegoat.
A former combat pilot.
The perfect emergency replacement if they disabled the crew.
They needed the plane controllable long enough to retrieve Keane’s evidence.
The masked man said:
“Remove the module.”
Keane looked at me.
“If we do, we may lose additional flight-control integration.”
“If we don’t, Norah dies.”
No choice.
Except perhaps there was.
I leaned toward the screen.
“You made one mistake.”
Silence.
“You showed me her compartment.”
“I showed you darkness.”
“No.”
I looked at the ventilation grille behind Norah.
A small red emergency marking sat beneath it.
Jillian would know it.
I transmitted the image to her.
She replied ten seconds later.
AFT CREW REST.
Jason and Jillian moved.
I kept talking.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Why poison the captain?”
A pause.
Too long.
Then:
“We didn’t.”
I froze.
“Captain Mercer was never part of the plan.”
Keane’s face changed.
If Meridian did not incapacitate the captain—
someone else did.
Someone running a second operation.
Then gunfire cracked through my phone from the aft cabin.
Norah screamed.
I dropped the device.
Jason shouted over the radio.
“Suspect down!”
I ran.
When I reached the aft crew-rest entrance, Jillian held Norah.
Alive.
Crying.
I fell to my knees.
She launched herself into me.
“Dad!”
I held her harder than I had ever held anyone.
Behind us, Jason pulled the attacker’s mask away.
Douglas Martinez.
The tech CEO from O’Hare.
The man who had brushed past me.
Except his identification said Douglas Martinez was thirty-nine.
The dead man on the floor was at least fifty.
A stolen identity.
Then Jillian whispered:
“Warren.”
She pointed toward his wrist.
A military tattoo.
Same unit insignia I had worn nine years earlier.
I recognized him.
Major Eric Voss.
May you like
A pilot officially killed two months after my final mission.
Another dead man who had somehow boarded our plane.
