“What did he do?” I asked, my breath catching in my throat.

“He accessed the external avionics ventilation hatch,” Miller said. “He was in there for nearly four minutes.”

A cold sensation trickled down my spine, freezing me in place.

“The pilots,” I whispered. “They were poisoned.”

“Yes,” Miller said. “We believe he introduced a highly concentrated chemical agent directly into the flight deck’s dedicated air supply line.”

I looked at Dr. Thorne, who was leaning over Captain Pierce, checking the man’s weak pulse.

“Doctor,” I said, my voice shaking. “Did you hear that?”

Dr. Thorne looked up, his silver-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose.

“Poisoned? Through the air vents?”

“They targeted the cockpit,” I told him, holding the phone tight.

On the co-pilot’s side, Malachi was staring straight ahead at the primary flight display, his small hands still hovering over the yoke.

“London Control,” Malachi said into his microphone. “The altimeter is still dropping. We are at thirty-four thousand feet.”

“Hold steady, Malachi,” the controller’s voice came through the overhead speaker. “Keep your hands light. We are calculating your glide path.”