“Yes,” I said, leaning against the doorframe to catch my breath. “Thank you, Gerald.”

He looked up at me, his arrogant demeanor completely gone, replaced by the raw terror of a man who realized how high we were.

“I didn’t want to die in first class,” he said quietly.

I turned back into the cockpit.

The silence from the instruments was deafening.

The primary flight displays were still dark, leaving only the three small standby gauges illuminated.

Malachi was staring at the center console.

“Grace, look at the autopilot switch,” the boy said.

I leaned over his shoulder.

The main autopilot engage buttons were dark, and the toggle switches beneath them were loose, moving freely without clicking.

Beside the pedestal, a small bundle of red and blue wires had been cleanly severed.

Thorne had used a pair of surgical shears to cut the backup control runs before we entered the room.

“Can you fix it?” Malachi asked, his voice small.

“I don’t know anything about wiring, Malachi,” I said honestly.

The satellite phone on the bulkhead flashed again, a bright, rhythmic strobe.