Maya stepped toward the radio.
Her hands were trembling now.
She knew that voice.
She had heard it through thunderstorms, training exercises, border patrols, and nights when the entire world had been reduced to instruments and breathing.
But the man who belonged to that voice had supposedly d/i/e/d eight years ago.
The incident that had ended her Air Force career.
“Ethan?” she whispered.
Static.
Then—
“You need to listen carefully. Someone aboard Flight 417 sabotaged your aircraft.”
Maya’s pulse hammered.
“And Maya…”
A pause.
“They’re sitting beside your son.”
For three seconds, Maya could hear nothing except the rain.
Then the cabin behind her seemed suddenly enormous.
One hundred and eighty-seven passengers.
Six crew members.
Her fourteen-year-old son, Lucas, sitting in seat 18A.
And someone beside him.
Maya turned.
Reeves caught her arm.
“You can’t run back there without knowing what you’re looking for.”
