He fell hard against the observer’s seat, groaning as his shoulder hit the metal frame.

The timer on Thorne’s device read 03:22.

The blue light on the overhead panel kept flashing.

“That’s the ground station,” Malachi said, his voice trembling.

“They want to know why we aren’t at our altitude.”

“They will find out soon enough,” Thorne said.

He reached out with his left hand and tapped the digital display.

The numbers ticked down faster.

03:01.

03:00.

“Why the countdown?” I asked, stepping slightly to the left to block his view of Malachi.

“The automated valves take time to seal,” Thorne said.

“Once they do, the air inside this cabin will become toxic within ninety seconds.”

“You have the antidote,” I said, my mind racing.

“For myself,” he agreed.

“And the boy?” I asked.

Thorne looked at Malachi’s back.

“A pity,” Thorne said. “He has his father’s hands.”

Malachi did not look back.

“My dad told me to trust the instruments,” the boy said.

“He told me the plane wants to fly.”

“Your dad is currently unconscious and brain-damaged, Malachi,” Thorne said coldly.