“Answer it, Grace,” Malachi whispered.

“Tell them what he’s doing.”

Thorne stepped closer to the pedestal, his eyes narrowing.

“If you touch that handset, I will activate the override immediately,” he said.

“We still have three minutes of clean air.”

“Choose how you want to spend them.”

I looked at the timer.

02:45.

Whitmore was on his knees, clutching his shoulder and weeping.

“Please,” Whitmore gasped. “I have millions. I can pay you.”

“Money doesn’t buy oxygen, Mr. Whitmore,” Thorne said.

He did not look down at the rich man.

His focus was entirely on me and Malachi.

I looked at the windshield.

Outside, there was nothing but blackness and the distant glitter of stars.

We were so high up.

So isolated.

“Malachi,” I said softly. “Are we on autopilot?”

“No,” Malachi said. “The autopilot disconnected when Dad fell.”

“I’m flying it manually.”

“Can you turn us?” I asked.

“Don’t try it,” Thorne warned, raising the device.

“If the nose dips, I’ll press the button.”

“We are heading to London,” Malachi said.

“But the weather radar is showing storms ahead.”