Chapter 2
Chapter 2
“Don't change altitude,” I said. “Don't alter course unless I tell you.” Rodriguez nodded, trusting the military pilots outside more than he understood.
My encrypted phone rang again. This time, it was Jake. “Listen carefully,” he said. “The aircraft near you isn't responding to civilian or military communication. The fighters aren't escorting you anymore. They're protecting you.”
“Protecting us from what?” I asked.
There was a pause. Then Jake said the words that made every memory of Syria come rushing back. “We believe someone is trying to force your aircraft toward restricted airspace. And they specifically asked for you.”
I looked through the cockpit window as the two fighters moved into position. Then the lead pilot transmitted one final message.
“Commander Hayes, whatever you do, do not trust anyone who claims they know you.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
Because someone on my flight already did.
PART 3: The words hit me harder than the shrapnel ever had. Someone on my flight knew me, and they were close enough to hear every announcement, every instruction, every change in our situation. I looked back through the cockpit doorway and studied the passengers as calmly as I could. One hundred and forty-seven strangers, all suddenly potential witnesses to something they didn't understand.
“Jake,” I whispered into the phone, “how did they know I was onboard?” There was silence on the other end. Then he answered, “Because your name was never supposed to be on the passenger manifest.” My stomach tightened.
I turned toward Captain Rodriguez. “Pull up the passenger list.” He hesitated, then accessed the system. My name appeared beside seat 12A, but something was wrong. The ticket had been purchased less than six hours before departure, using a government travel account that didn't belong to me.
“That's impossible,” I said. Rodriguez looked at me. “Why?” I pointed at the screen. “Because I bought my own ticket three weeks ago.” The captain's face went pale.
Before either of us could speak, the aircraft jolted violently. Several passengers screamed as the plane dropped for a few seconds before stabilizing. Outside, the F-35s broke formation and accelerated toward the unknown aircraft.
Then the lead fighter transmitted again. “Commander Hayes, we have movement below you.” I looked at the radar display, and my instincts immediately recognized the pattern. A small aircraft was climbing rapidly from beneath our flight path, deliberately positioning itself where the fighters couldn't safely intercept without risking the civilian plane.
“Captain, descend two thousand feet,” I ordered. Rodriguez stared at me. “Are you sure?” “Do it now.” He pushed the controls forward, and the aircraft began descending.
The executive from 12B appeared at the cockpit doorway. His face was no longer nervous. He looked completely calm. Too calm. His laptop was closed, and one hand was hidden inside his jacket.
I stepped toward him. “You need to return to your seat.” He smiled faintly. “You really don't remember me, do you?” Every muscle in my body tightened.
He slowly removed his hand from his jacket and held up an old photograph. It showed five men standing beside a damaged helicopter in Syria eight months earlier. Two of them were the brothers I'd lost. One was me.
And standing beside us was the man now sitting in 12B.
“You were there,” I said.
He nodded. “I was the reason your team was sent into that valley.”
The cabin suddenly filled with another announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated.” But beneath the captain's calm voice came another sound—three sharp knocks from somewhere behind the cockpit.
The executive looked past me and whispered, “They've boarded the aircraft.”
I reached for the encrypted phone again.
This time, Jake didn't answer.
The metallic latch of the cockpit door vibrated under the heavy impact of those three deliberate knocks. My pulse remained steady, though my ruined leg sent an electric spark of agony straight into my lower spine.
The man from seat 12B stood before me with cold detachment, holding the faded photograph of our extraction point in Syria. His posture had shed all pretenses of an insecure executive, revealing the hardened balance of a veteran operative.
"Who tapped that door frame?" I demanded in a quiet rasp, stepping between him and the captain's instrument panel. Outside the canopy, the pale desert floor blurred beneath us as our airliner plunged through the ordered two thousand feet.
"Not enemies, Hayes," the man said softly, pocketing the photograph inside his tailored wool jacket. "Asset extraction. The private contractor who compromised our team eight months ago has chartered an aerial breach team to intercept this transport."
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Captain Rodriguez gripped the yoke with white knuckles, fighting the turbulent wake of the descending jet. The automated altitude warnings chimed once through the cockpit speakers before he muted the audio override with a trembling finger.
—END OF Chapter 2,
