“The cabin pressure is starting to drop,” I said, my ears popping.

The air in my throat felt thin and dry, like ice water.

“Grace, the red light is blinking,” Malachi said, pointing to the warning panel above his head. “CABIN ALTITUDE. It’s yellow now.”

I grabbed the back of the captain’s seat to steady myself.

The floor beneath us gave a sudden, sickening lurch to the left.

Whitmore screamed, losing his grip on my trousers and sliding against the lower bulkhead.

“He’s going to kill us!” Whitmore shrieked, his eyes bulging. “I’m not dying in this metal tube!”

Whitmore scrambled toward the door, his manicured hands tearing at the locking mechanism.

“Stay away from that door, Gerald!” I yelled, reaching for his collar.

He kicked backward, his heavy heel striking my shin.

A sharp pain shot up my leg, and I stumbled back against the pedestal.

Thorne watched us, his expression perfectly calm, almost academic.

The timer in his hand showed 00:05.

00:04.

00:03.

“It is time to say goodbye to London, Grace,” Thorne whispered.

He pressed the yellow button on the side of the receiver.