The cabin went dark, and the jet banked to the left. His eyes adjusted to the green glow from an LED on the flashlight.

His inner ear crackled, telling him the plane was descending rapidly.

He had to get himself strapped into a seat. He had no choice about that. He raised the fire extinguisher, rounded the corner, and charged.

The guy, facing forward, was swearing a blue streak at the top of his lungs. The pilots didn’t seem to hear him. Kevin continued down the aisle. The guy looked much bigger up close, strong and dangerous. He had a birthmark or tattoo on the side of his neck.

“Ahhhhh!” Kevin shouted.

The guy’s head came around, his hands lifting defensively.

Kevin pulled the trigger.

It took Walt three minutes to reach Sun Valley Aviation. Pete was already there, speaking to a woman that a counter plaque identified as REBA.

“No kids,” Pete said as Walt entered. “Just a flight crew of three.”

“T-A-nine-five-nine?” Walt said.

“Yes,” the woman said. Her upper lip was moist. “It wasn’t the same flight crew that flew it in, but that’s not all that unusual.”

“Video?” Walt said, pointing to a camera high in the corner.

She led them into the back office, where a dedicated computer screen showed four camera angles. It took her only minutes to match a time stamp on the fuel receipt with the time stamp on the video and play back the images of the flight crew.

The first two guys wore crew caps down low, obscuring their faces. The third guy wore a baseball cap backward, and managed to stay off camera most of the time. Finally, he happened to look up.

“That’s Salvo,” Walt said.

The receptionist froze the image. Matthew Salvo was looking right at the camera.

“And Salvo is…?” Pete said.

“A person of interest,” Walt answered.

Cantell was no longer after the wine. He’d stolen Sumner’s private jet worth seventeen million dollars.

“I want to confirm T-A-nine-five-nine is not on this ramp,” Walt said.

He walked briskly to the FBO’s door and pushed out into the cool evening air, taking in the large number of jets and the gaping hole in the back line where Reba was pointing.

“See?”

But Walt didn’t see. His eyes were fixed on the beat-up Subaru parked outside the chain-link fence.

A spray of noxious yellow powder huffed from the fire extinguisher’s nozzle, coating the man’s face. Kevin swung the extinguisher at him, striking him with the butt end in a roundhouse blow that sounded like a ripe melon hitting concrete. The man went down, bouncing off one of the seats and convulsing to the carpet.

Freed, Summer kicked the man twice, before Kevin pulled her away and wrapped her in his arms.

The pilots, consumed with the complexities of landing a damaged jet, were unaware of anything going on in the back.

Kevin and Summer stood there several long seconds, their uncertain faces flashing green and orange, frozen in place, unable to speak.

Kevin finally blurted out, “We’ve got to get buckled. This thing’s going down.”

“His cap,” she said, bending down and feeling around in the dark. She found it and handed it to Kevin. “In case they look back here…”

Kevin moved the man so his legs didn’t stick out in the aisle. Summer took her seat again, while Kevin donned the cap backward and sat in the unconscious man’s seat. Facing toward the back of the plane meant the pilots wouldn’t see his face, if they bothered to check.

Kevin glanced over at Summer in the inconsistent light and caught her looking back at him inquisitively. He had no answers for her, wondering if he should make a move for the galley’s knife drawer. But the jet was losing altitude fast, wobbling as if dangerously out of control.

White light washed the cabin when the landing lights came on at the last moment. Kevin bent forward and grabbed his knees. Summer followed suit.

In a flash of absolute certainty, he knew what came next. It was as if his uncle were telling him what to do. He signaled Summer, motioning aft and to the left, to the emergency door.

She nodded.

He pointed at her.

You go first.

She nodded again.

Progress, he thought. Now, the knife, the flashlight, the phone-in that order-while we’re still moving.

He and Summer could do this.

The Learjet landed hard, bounced, bounced twice more, then shook hard as if about to break apart.

With the impact, the man at Kevin’s feet shifted and groaned. He was coming to.

Everything suddenly went dark.

Kevin signaled Summer.

It’s now or never.

Summer released her seat belt and ran for the back of the plane.

Walt should have been looking at a team of twenty trained deputies at his spanking-new Incident Command Center. Instead, he was looking at four, two of them civilian clerks. Five on-call deputies were on their way, but still twenty to thirty minutes out. Overhead displays, satellite links, the Ethernet-all seemed to be laughing at him in almost empty space.

The Subaru was Kevin’s. The Learjet was gone. They had a para-sailor’s 911 report that a low-flying jet had hit a flock of geese and, when last seen, its engines were smoking or on fire. The timing of the sighting matched the cell-phone-following GPS program that placed Kevin over the town of Ketchum.

Walt attempted not to show the despair he felt, but this last bit of news had sent a wave of panic and dread through him-recalling the US Airways jet that had taken less than two minutes to crash-land in the Hudson. He caught himself staring at the phone, expecting it to ring. He’d lost his brother several years earlier. He couldn’t bear to lose his brother’s son. He reached to loosen the top button of his uniform, but found it unbuttoned already.

He was not a man to shrink from responsibility, yet, for a moment, he just wanted to walk out the door and keep going. No more phone calls, no more bad news. He watched the clock on the wall’s second hand jerk around its face.

Walt caught Fiona staring at him from a seat in the otherwise empty front row. She grimaced and cocked her head silently, checking that he was okay. He returned an indifferent shrug, his eyes revealing the dead space inside. He so did not want the phone to ring.

“Okay,” he said, getting the attention of the four other people in the room, including Fiona. “Pull together Search and Rescue. Apprise Joaquin up in Stanley of the situation. Update the Challis sheriff. And we’d better at least notify the Forest Service to prepare for a fire response. If the plane goes down… well, it’s mostly forest up there.”

The speakerphone beeped.

“Sheriff?”

Walt steeled himself, resolving not to fall apart in front of this group.

“Go ahead.”

“The MC has a Theodore Sumner trying to vid-chat with you. Do you want to take it?”

Walt worked the laptop. The screen came alive, as did an overhead monitor. Walt didn’t want the man’s face overhead but didn’t know how to shut it off.

Teddy Sumner’s stress could be measured by the sweat on his upper lip and the pain in his eyes.

“I’ve got it,” Walt said, punching the phone and slipping on a headset. “Go ahead, Mr. Sumner.”

“Good evening, Sheriff,” Sumner began. “As I suspected, my pilot is in his hotel room, watching television. But I asked him to call for the plane, and, of course, you’re also right that it’s gone. It took off right around the time you said it did, which, I can assure you, it did without my permission. The only conclusion to draw is, my jet’s been stolen. Why? I have no idea. With proper notification, it will be seized the moment it lands anywhere, although, fully fueled as it is, it could reach Mexico. If that happens, I’ll likely lose it. I asked my pilot about the key-there are only two-and he has his. When I looked for mine-I’m loath to admit this-it was missing. As is my daughter, which, I’m told by Mr. Webb, you’re aware of. Putting two and two together, my daughter took my key and got someone to fly my plane, though, for the life of me, I refuse to believe it.”