Captain Reed had walked close enough to hear.
His face drained.
“Tampered?”
The investigator nodded carefully.
“We’re preserving the aircraft as a potential crime scene.”
Jennifer whispered:
“Sabotage?”
“No conclusions yet.”
But the word was already hanging there.
Sabotage.
I looked back at the 737.
Then something occurred to me.
“Passenger manifest.”
The investigator frowned.
“What about it?”
“Was it public before departure?”
“No.”
“Crew list?”
“Limited access.”
“Maintenance had access?”
He didn’t answer.
I looked at Emily.
Then at Reed.
Then at the airplane.
Thirty-two years earlier, engineers had concealed a known failure on the Wraith because billions of dollars were at stake.
Now, on the first flight I had taken in decades, multiple hydraulic systems had failed under suspicious circumstances.
Maybe coincidence.
I had spent enough of my life around intelligence officers and test programs to know coincidence exists.
But I also knew when coincidence deserved to be interrogated.
The investigator’s phone rang.
He walked several yards away to answer it.
Then stopped.
Turned toward me.
His expression had changed.
He came back slowly.
“Colonel Mitchell.”
“What?”
“You said your call sign was Phoenix?”
I felt Emily’s hand tighten around mine.
“Yes.”
The investigator held up an evidence photograph on his phone.
A maintenance access panel had been opened beneath the aircraft.
Inside, investigators had found a small strip of red tape attached beside one compromised component.
Someone had written one word on it with black marker.
PHOENIX.
My entire body went cold.
Captain Reed whispered:
“Sarah…”
But I wasn’t listening anymore.
Because suddenly Flight 2891 didn’t feel like an accident I happened to survive.
It felt like a message.
Someone knew I was on that plane.
Someone knew what happened to me at Edwards.
Someone knew the name I had not used in thirty-two years.
And whoever sabotaged that aircraft had expected 187 people to die just to prove one thing:
Phoenix could not bring this one home.
They were wrong.
My phone vibrated inside my pocket.
Unknown number.
One text message.
I opened it.
There was no greeting.
No signature.
Just nine words:
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD AFTER THE WRAITH, PHOENIX.
Emily saw my face.
“Mom?”
I couldn’t answer.
Then a second message appeared.
This one contained a photograph.
Taken less than ten minutes earlier.
Emily and me hugging on the runway.
From somewhere nearby.
Someone was watching us.
And beneath the photograph were four words:
