Vance didn't hesitate. He reached up, tore off the safety wire, and slammed down the heavy toggle for the SATCOM primary circuit breaker.
A loud spark snapped behind the avionics panel. For half a second, the cockpit screens went dead. Then, with a shudder that vibrated through the airframe, the Dreamliner leveled off at twenty-two thousand feet. The screaming dive ceased, but the aircraft remained trapped in a wide, sweeping bank toward the desolate waters of the Arctic Circle.
"The dive stopped, but the flight management system is still locked to their coordinates," Vance gasped, wrestling the yoke, which remained rock-hard and unresponsive. "She set a dead-man's waypoint. We're headed toward an uncharted sector north of Iceland."
"Not yet," Elena said, her eyes narrowing as she looked back into the cabin.
Through the narrow cockpit door, she saw someone standing in the forward galley. While every other passenger was strapped into their seat clutching their oxygen masks, one man was calmly reaching into his tailored jacket, his hand emerging with a suppressed semi-automatic pistol.
It was Federal Air Marshal Reynolds—the man assigned personally by the Department of Transportation to ensure Elena’s safety on this flight.
Chapter 35
Reynolds stepped across the galley threshold, his gun leveled directly at Captain Vance’s head. His expression was devoid of emotion, the cold stare of a mercenary who had long abandoned his badge for syndicate gold.
"Step away from the avionics panel, Miss Sterling," Reynolds said, his voice flat, barely audible above the engine drone but carrying absolute authority. "Keep your hands where I can see them, and tell the Captain to leave that breaker alone."
"Reynolds?" Captain Vance choked out, staring in disbelief at the black muzzle pointed at his face. "You’ve been on our VIP security roster for six years. What the hell is this?"
"Six years of earning a government wage while watching Arthur and Evelyn Sterling move billions through offshore shell companies," Reynolds replied, not blinking. "Evelyn offered me ten million dollars and a private island in an non-extradition zone. That buys a lot of loyalty, Vance. Far more than your airline ever paid."
Elena did not flinch. She took half a step forward, placing herself directly between the barrel of the gun and the cockpit controls. "You’re an idiot, Reynolds. You think Evelyn leaves witnesses? The moment this plane lands wherever she’s steering it, you’re just another body in a shallow trench."
"She needs the master biometric token in your purse, Elena," Reynolds sneered, stepping closer. "The Swiss authorities froze three billion dollars in the Zurich syndicate vault. That money can only be unlocked with two simultaneous biological signatures: Evelyn's... and yours. She doesn't need you happy. She just needs your thumb and your retinas."
"Then you'd better shoot straight," Elena whispered.
At that exact fraction of a second, Marcus, the veteran purser who had been quietly hiding behind the forward service curtain, lunged forward with a heavy stainless-steel galley coffee canister.
With all the strength in his arms, Marcus swung the canister directly into the side of Reynolds’s temple.
Chapter 36
A sharp, metallic crack echoed through the galley as the heavy steel canister struck Reynolds. The rogue marshal staggered sideways, his gun discharging with a deafening *thwip-crack* that sent a nine-millimeter slug tearing through the cockpit doorframe, shattering a glass backup instrument gauge.
Elena moved with lethal precision. Before Reynolds could recover his balance, she drove her heel directly into his knee, hyperextending the joint with an audible snap.
Reynolds howled in agony, collapsing against the galley cart. His pistol clattered across the linoleum floor, sliding into the darkness beneath Seat 1B.
Marcus leaped onto the marshal's shoulders, locking his arms around the traitor's throat in a desperate sleeper hold. Reynolds thrash violently, his heavy fists striking Marcus's ribs, but the purser held on with grim determination, his teeth clenched, veins bulging across his neck.
"Elena! The zip-ties in the emergency medical kit!" Marcus grunted through gritted teeth.
Elena tore open the emergency response locker beneath the jumpseat, pulled out four heavy-duty Kevlar flex-cuffs, and dropped to her knees beside the struggling men. Working with cold, practiced efficiency, she bound Reynolds’s wrists behind his back until the plastic dug deep into his flesh, then secured his ankles and looped a third strap between them.
Reynolds slumped unconscious against the bulkhead, blood trickling from his temple onto his starched white collar.
"Good work, Marcus," Elena breathed, wiping a streak of sweat from her brow.
"Don't thank me yet, Boss," Marcus gasped, clutching his bruised ribs and gesturing toward the window. "Look outside."