First Officer Danny Cole survived the poisoning.

We visited him in the Dublin hospital two days later.

He was still weak, pale against the white hospital sheets, but he managed a small smile when we walked in.

“I heard what you did,” Cole whispered, his voice dry and raspy. “Both of you.”

“We had to,” I said. “You gave us the warning we needed.”

Cole reached out, his hand shaking slightly, and shook Malachi’s hand.

“Your father would have been proud, kid,” Cole said. “You’re a real pilot.”

Malachi nodded, a faint smile appearing on his face.

Gerald Whitmore had already left on a private charter back to New York, his lawyers issuing a brief statement thanking the crew.

Dr. Thorne and Miller remained in Irish custody, awaiting their trial.

My career with the airline was over, and I knew I would never step onto a commercial aircraft again.

But as I walked out of the hospital with Malachi into the cool afternoon air, I felt a deep sense of relief.

The rain had finally stopped, and the grey clouds were beginning to part.

We walked down the quiet street together, leaving the flight behind us.