“He just landed the plane, Miller,” I said, stepping between him and the pilot’s seat.

“The data,” Miller muttered, his gaze shifting to the flashing red light on the navigation display. “It has to finish deleting. Move.”

Malachi did not look back at him.

His small, steady hands flew across the overhead panel, tracing the rows of black switches.

“Grace, hold him off,” Malachi said, his voice remarkably calm. “I need ten seconds.”

Miller lunged forward, but the cockpit floor suddenly tilted violently to the left.

Malachi had engaged the heavy manual nose wheel steering tiller, guiding the massive aircraft off the main runway onto a high-speed taxiway.

The sudden shift in momentum sent Miller crashing against the observer’s jump seat.

The metal axe clattered against the pedestal, sparking briefly against the throttle quadrant.

I seized the heavy flashlight from the bulkhead bracket and slammed it down onto Miller’s wrist.

He cried out, releasing his grip on the axe as he tumbled onto the floor.

“Now, Malachi!” I shouted.

Malachi gripped a thick black circuit breaker on the back wall of the cockpit and pulled it hard.