Chapter 3 - They Knew My NameThe hijackers weren't trying to crash the plane. They were steering it somewhere Warren had sworn never to return.
The aircraft stopped descending.
Barely.
The control inputs returned.
But something had changed.
The airplane was responding a fraction of a second slower.
A computer was still between us and the sky.
That was unacceptable.
“Captain, switch to direct control.”
“We can't.”
“You can.”
He stared.
“You don't understand the system.”
“I understand airplanes.”
“You can't simply bypass—”
“Do it.”
My voice came out sharper than intended.
The captain obeyed.
The aircraft responded.
Better.
I took a breath.
“Now tell me where we're going.”
He looked at the standby magnetic heading.
“East.”
“How east?”
“Heading zero-seven-two.”
London was roughly east.
But not that far north.
Something else caught my attention.
The weather radar.
A cluster of red.
Heavy storm activity directly ahead.
“Can we climb?”
“Not much.”
“Why?”
“We've lost thrust management.”
I looked at the engine readouts.
Both engines were healthy.
Yet the automated thrust system was malfunctioning.
Another deliberate attack.
Someone was carefully removing every safety net without actually killing us.
That was the part I hated.
A crash would be simple.
This wasn't.
They wanted control.
They wanted fear.
They wanted a negotiation.
I asked the captain for the paper navigation charts.
He looked confused.
“Paper?”
“Please tell me your airline still carries them.”
He opened a drawer.
A folded Atlantic chart appeared.
I spread it over the console.
The captain stared.
“You're serious.”
“I stopped trusting computers a long time ago.”
I traced our estimated position.
The storm ahead.
Our fuel.
The remaining usable systems.
Then I noticed something.
A route line had appeared on the secondary display.
Not the airline route.
Not the programmed flight plan.
A different path.
I recognized the destination.
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
The captain looked at me.
“What?”
I pointed.
“Newfoundland.”
“That's west.”
“Exactly.”
The route was trying to turn us around.
Toward a remote military airfield.
The captain stared.
“Why would they do that?”
I looked at Douglas.
“You tell me.”
Douglas didn't speak.
I stepped toward him.
“Your brother.”
“What about him?”
“Who was he?”
Douglas's jaw tightened.
“Military intelligence.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Which unit?”
He hesitated.
“Special operations.”
That narrowed it.
I asked again.
“Name.”
“Daniel Martinez.”
I froze.
Daniel Martinez.
A name buried deep in a memory I hadn't touched in years.
A young officer.
Quiet.
Brilliant.
Terrible at poker.
He had once shared a barracks room with me.
And then he disappeared.
Not transferred.
Not discharged.
Disappeared.
“You knew him,” Douglas said.
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
“I was told he died.”
Douglas laughed bitterly.
“He didn't.”
The cockpit door opened again.
This time Jillian looked directly at me.
“Mr. Hayes, your daughter is awake.”
I turned.
“Where is she?”
“She wants you.”
“I'll be there.”
Jillian stepped closer.
“But there's something else.”
“What?”
“She says there's a man sitting beside her.”
My body went rigid.
“Who?”
“She doesn't know.”
I pushed past her.
The cabin was darker now.
Passengers sat frozen in their seats.
Nobody moved.
Norah was still in 8B.
The older woman sat beside her.
But a man was standing in the aisle.
Black suit.
No airline badge.
No ticket visible.
I recognized his face.
Not personally.
From surveillance photos.
From intelligence reports.
A ghost from a war I had left behind.
Victor Kane.
Everyone in Chicago's criminal underground believed Victor Kane had been dead for eight years.
I had believed it too.
He smiled.
“Hello, Warren.”
Norah looked up at him.
“Dad, who is he?”
I stepped between them.
Victor raised both hands.
“Relax.”
“You have five seconds.”
He smiled wider.
“Still dramatic.”
“Four.”
“I came to talk.”
“Three.”
“You need to know something.”
“Two.”
He leaned closer.
“Your wife didn't die in an accident.”
Everything inside me stopped.
Norah looked between us.
“Mom?”
Victor whispered:
“She was murdered.”
I stared at him.
“My wife died nine years ago.”
“I know.”
“You're lying.”
Victor shook his head.
“The plane crash that killed her wasn't an accident.”
The cabin seemed to vanish.
Only one thing remained.
His next sentence.
“Your enemies have been planning tonight since the day she died.”
Then the aircraft tilted.
May you like
Passengers screamed.
And somewhere above the Atlantic, a hidden timer began counting down.
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