He pushed the nose down, his knuckles white.

Thorne looked at the instrument panel, his expression hardening.

“You’re going to crash us anyway,” I said, rubbing my wrist.

“No,” Thorne said. “The boy is doing a remarkably good job.”

“We just need to get past the radar horizon.”

“Once we are out of range, the descent will begin.”

He reached into his jacket pocket again.

I thought he was reaching for the antidote.

Instead, he pulled out a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters.

They were industrial, with yellow insulated handles.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He did not answer me.

He looked at the mass of wires running beneath the main instrument panel near the rudder pedals.

He knew exactly where to look.

He had studied the schematics of this specific aircraft.

“No,” I said, stepping forward again.

But Whitmore, still panicking on the floor, grabbed my ankle.

“Don’t make him do it!” Whitmore screamed, his face wet with tears.

“Just do what he says! He has the medicine!”

“Let go of me, Gerald!” I kicked back, trying to shake his grip.