The lock on the door gave a loud, cracking sound as the metal frame began to buckle under the pressure from the outside.

I grabbed the override switch and flipped it down to the locked position, but the metal frame groaned again.

Another heavy blow struck the upper panel, and the top hinge tore completely out of the composite wall.

A gap of three inches opened at the top of the door, and the sweet, chemical smell of the cabin air rushed into my nose.

It tasted like burnt almonds and hot copper.

“Grace!” Gerald Whitmore’s voice shrieked through the gap, high-pitched and completely stripped of its usual wealthy arrogance.

“Let me in! They are dying out there! He is killing us!”

Malachi gasped behind me, his small hands slipping on the leather-wrapped yoke as the plane took a sudden, sickening lurch downward.

“Keep her nose up, Mal!” I yelled, turning my back to him to face the door.

“I can’t!” the boy cried, his voice cracking with prepubescent terror.

“The wheel is too heavy, Grace! It’s pulling back down!”