Chapter 2 - The Cockpit Went DarkThe plane had lost its systems. Warren had lost something far more important: the illusion that he had escaped his past.
The cabin lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then emergency lighting washed the cockpit in dim red.
The captain swore under his breath.
I didn't.
I had learned something in combat.
Panic was expensive.
You could afford fear.
You couldn't afford confusion.
“Altitude?”
The captain answered instantly.
“Thirty-four thousand eight hundred feet.”
“Speed?”
“Three hundred eighty knots.”
“Heading?”
He looked down.
The primary navigation display was gone.
“Unknown.”
I looked at the standby instruments.
At least the basic attitude indicator still worked.
That meant we weren't blind.
Not yet.
“Tell me the aircraft type.”
“Boeing 787.”
I nodded.
Different cockpit.
Different philosophy.
Same laws of physics.
The captain stared at me.
“Can you fly this?”
“I can keep it in the sky.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“It isn't what matters.”
He looked down at the first officer.
“What's wrong with him?”
The first officer's breathing was shallow.
“Medical issue,” the captain said. “He collapsed twenty minutes ago.”
Twenty minutes.
Exactly when the systems started failing.
That wasn't a coincidence.
I examined him.
No blood.
No visible injury.
His pupils were uneven.
“Drugged?”
“Doctor said maybe.”
“Doctor?”
The captain nodded toward the cabin.
“There is a physician on board.”
I felt a strange tension in my chest.
Too many coincidences.
A sick first officer.
Dead avionics.
A hijacker who knew my identity.
A passenger who threatened my daughter.
This wasn't random.
It was engineered.
“Captain,” I said, “disconnect whatever external communications you can.”
He stared.
“Why?”
“Because they're inside your systems.”
He hesitated.
“That's not possible.”
I pointed at the dead displays.
“Someone disabled those remotely.”
The captain went pale.
“Are you saying we've been hacked?”
“I'm saying whoever did this knew exactly which systems to touch.”
The aircraft rolled slightly.
The nose drifted.
I put my hand on the control column.
The captain watched.
“You've done this before.”
“Yes.”
“In combat?”
“Yes.”
“How many missions?”
I didn't answer.
He understood.
He adjusted trim while I stabilized the aircraft.
For several seconds, the 787 returned to level flight.
My heart rate dropped.
Muscle memory had a cruel way of surviving.
No matter how many years passed.
Your hands remembered.
The feel of air pressure through the controls.
The tiny correction.
The resistance.
The aircraft talking to you through vibration.
I could hear it.
A faint vibration through the floor.
Something wasn't right.
“Are you hearing that?”
The captain listened.
“I hear the engines.”
“Not the engines.”
I closed my eyes.
There.
A pulsing vibration.
Low.
Regular.
I opened them.
“Fuel pump.”
The captain checked.
One pump had begun cycling.
Then another.
I frowned.
“Don't touch it.”
He froze.
“Why?”
“Because I didn't ask it to.”
The cockpit door opened.
Jillian stood there.
Her face was pale.
“Captain…”
“What?”
“We have a problem in the cabin.”
“What kind?”
She looked at me.
“There is a man demanding to see Mr. Hayes.”
The captain turned.
“Who?”
Jillian swallowed.
“Douglas Martinez.”
My jaw tightened.
The businessman from the gate.
The man who looked at my hoodie and saw nobody worth noticing.
He entered the cockpit.
His expression had changed.
“Warren.”
The captain stared between us.
“You know each other?”
Douglas stepped closer.
“I know who he is.”
I looked at him.
“Interesting.”
“You don't understand.”
“I understand plenty.”
Douglas glanced toward the instrument panel.
“They've started.”
I stepped toward him.
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
Instead he looked at Jillian.
“Get his daughter.”
My blood turned cold.
I grabbed his collar.
“Say that again.”
Douglas didn't fight back.
He almost looked relieved.
“Your daughter isn't the target.”
“Then why mention her?”
“Because they want you to think she is.”
I loosened my grip by an inch.
“What does that mean?”
Douglas leaned closer.
“They are trying to force you into using the one thing you spent nine years trying to bury.”
“My old identity?”
He nodded.
“Your network.”
I stared at him.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who knows what your men are capable of.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Douglas's expression hardened.
“My brother was on the manifest.”
“And?”
“He isn't in London.”
I frowned.
“What?”
Douglas whispered:
“He was never supposed to be on this plane.”
The cockpit suddenly shook.
A violent jolt slammed the aircraft downward.
Alarms screamed.
The captain grabbed his controls.
I reached for mine.
“What happened?”
He looked at the altitude.
“We're descending.”
“How fast?”
“Two thousand feet a minute.”
I corrected the pitch.
Nothing.
The controls felt heavy.
May you like
Then Douglas said the sentence that made the blood drain from my face.
“They just took control of the aircraft.”
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