Outside, the fighters tilted their wings in a clean, silent salute.
“You still have my six,” I whispered without meaning to.
The runway rose up through the windshield.
Passengers behind us clutched hands and whispered prayers.
They didn’t know their lives were riding on a woman in a thrift-store jacket with an old ID card and a name she’d buried.
The tires touched down smooth.
Not a bounce.
Not a skid.
A perfect kiss of rubber to pavement.
The cabin exploded.
Applause. Screams. Sobs. People hugging strangers like they’d been reborn.
In the cockpit, I didn’t move right away.
My hands stayed on the controls.
Because the worst part isn’t the falling.
It’s the quiet after you save everyone—and realize the past heard you calling.
Emergency vehicles swarmed the plane, lights flashing without sirens, like even they didn’t want to spook the moment.
