The flashing red light on the flight data recorder panel died instantly.

The main displays flickered once, then settled into a dull standby mode.

“It’s over,” Malachi whispered, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “The backup drive is isolated. They can’t delete it now.”

Outside the thick glass of the cockpit window, the blue and red flashing lights of emergency vehicles illuminated the wet tarmac.

The screech of the brakes was deafening as the seventy-ton aircraft finally ground to a complete halt.

The twin engines whined down into a low, rumbling hiss, then went silent.

Sirens wailed from every direction, echoing through the cold night air of the Irish airfield.

The cockpit door was suddenly pushed open wider, and three armed officers in high-visibility jackets burst in.

They immediately pinned Miller to the floor, securing his hands in heavy zip-ties.

“Nobody move!” one officer yelled, his rifle pointed toward the rear bulkhead.

I pointed to the corner of the cabin where Dr. Thorne was still sitting, his face pale and expressionless.

“Dr. Thorne is over there,” I said, my voice trembling but clear. “He poisoned the flight crew. The evidence is on his phone.”