The crying had been going on for eighty-seven minutes when Leah started counting.

Leah took small, stumbling steps, mimicking the awkward gait of an exhausted child fighting aircraft turbulence.

As she reached Seat 4B, the plane shuddered through a sudden pocket of choppy air. Leah didn't fake the slip—she used the momentum. She pitched sideways, letting out a sharp, frightened squeak, and tipped the can of ginger ale directly onto the man’s lap and keyboard.

"Hey! Watch it, you brat!" the man hissed, recoiling instantly, his hands flying away from the keyboard to wipe his soaked trousers.

"I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!" Leah cried, dropping to her knees. But her hands weren't cleaning his pants. In the half-second of distraction, her small fingers slid beneath the edge of his seat cushion, exactly where the emergency life vest was stowed.

Her knuckles brushed against a cold, rectangular plastic casing with an external antenna. It was taped to the underside of the seat frame with industrial adhesive.

The man realized her hand was under his seat an instant too late. His eyes widened behind his sunglasses, and his arm shot out to grab her wrist with crushing force. "What are you doing?!"

"Marcus!" Leah screamed.

The bodyguard didn't hesitate. Marcus crossed the ten feet between them like an artillery shell. He drove his forearm down across the man’s throat, slamming him back into the leather headrest before the man could reach inside his jacket.

Julian was right behind him, sweeping Leah behind his body. "Don't move," Julian growled at the operative. "One twitch and Marcus breaks your collarbone."

The man in the navy blazer choked, a bloody grin spreading across his teeth. "You’re too late, Vance. The beacon is synchronized. You think you’re landing safely in Rome? The ground grid is already locked. You don't have an airport to land at anymore."

Marcus reached under the seat, ripped the transmitter from the frame, and crushed the circuit board beneath the heel of his boot.

The first-class cabin erupted into muffled murmurs as the flight attendants rushed forward, but Julian held up his government credentials and the pilot’s cabin door clicked open from the inside.

Captain Miller stepped out, pale and alert. "Mr. Vance? Air Traffic Control just redirected our flight path. They’re claiming Leonardo da Vinci Airport has a runway hazard. They’re vectoring us to a private military strip north of the city."