Then she touched the dog tags.
“Right seat,” she said.
“Right seat.”
The engine started with a vibration she felt through her bones.
As they climbed above the runway, Dana’s breathing went shallow. She nearly asked to turn back.
Then sunlight broke across the wing.
Clouds opened beneath them in long white canyons.
Jack said nothing.
He simply flew.
After several minutes, he lifted his hands slightly from the controls.
“Your airplane.”
Dana stared at him.
“You said you were flying.”
“I changed my mind.”
She almost swore at him.
Instead, she placed her right hand on the stick.
The aircraft answered with the smallest movement.
Muscle memory returned without permission.
Dana leveled the wings.
For a while, that was all she did.
No maneuvers. No mission. No enemy. Just a horizon and a machine responding honestly to her hands.
Jack looked out his side of the canopy.
“You still overcorrect left.”
“I can land and make you walk home.”
“There she is.”
Dana smiled.
Far below, roads crossed fields like thin threads. Somewhere beyond the horizon were people who would never know Ethan Vale’s name. Six of them were alive because he had chosen one more pass.
Dana touched the dog tags once, then returned her hand to the throttle.
For two years she had worn them like a sentence.
Now, for the first time, she understood they could also be a promise.
