My voice sounded thin against the roar of the engines.

“Your phone is buzzing.”

He reached slowly into his pocket.

He turned the screen face down.

“A private matter, Grace,” he said.

“We have bigger problems,” Malachi said from the left seat.

The control column was vibrating under his hands.

The flight deck was cold.

Outside the windows, the clouds were a thick, dirty gray.

We were dropping through twelve thousand feet.

“The military field in Ireland just cleared us,” Malachi said.

“But the wind is coming from the west at forty knots.”

He pulled back slightly on the yoke.

The airplane groaned.

“Can we land with only two green lights?” I asked.

I stepped closer to the pedestal, keeping my eyes on Thorne.

“If the right main gear doesn’t lock, the wing will scrape,” Malachi said.

“It could tear the fuel tank open.”

“Is there a manual backup?” Gerald Whitmore asked from the jumpseat.

His voice was high and cracked.

He was clutching his leather briefcase to his chest.

“The manual release is what they cut, Mr. Whitmore,” Malachi said.

He did not look back.