The only sound was the clicking of cooling metal and the hiss of steam from the hot brakes.

The right main gear had collapsed, but the wing had not torn open.

We were alive.

“We did it,” Malachi whispered.

He let go of the yoke.

His hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t keep them still.

“We did it, Malachi,” I said.

I reached over and put my hand on his shoulder.

He looked at me, his eyes wide and wet with tears.

In the back of the cockpit, Gerald Whitmore slowly raised his head.

“Are we dead?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Whitmore,” I said.

“We’re on the ground.”

“In Ireland.”

I turned around to look at Dr. Thorne.

He was still sitting against the bulkhead.

His phone was lying on the floor in front of him.

The screen had lit up again.

A new message was visible.

I leaned down and picked up the phone.

Thorne did not try to stop me.

He looked defeated.

The message was from an unsaved number.

It read: *The authorities are waiting at the terminal. Do not let the boy speak to anyone.*