Chapter 19 - THE EYE OF THE HURRICANE
The turboprop shuddered as it slammed into the outer wall of the storm. Rain hammered against the reinforced windshield like handfuls of gravel, and the digital altimeter danced wildly between 23,800 and 24,200 feet.
In the back of the cargo hold, boxes shifted, but Malachi’s hands remained locked on the controls with absolute, surgical precision. He didn't over-correct. He felt every micro-vibration of the airframe through the soles of his shoes and the palms of his hands, exactly as his father had taught him.
“Altitude stabilizing at 24,500,” Malachi reported, his breath steady. “We’re clearing the turbulence ceiling now.”
Suddenly, the black wall of clouds parted ahead of them, and the aircraft burst out into a vast, sunlit cavern of clear blue sky right above the eye of the storm. Below them, the swirling white hurricane walls looked like a sleeping giant, while ahead, the calm waters of the Florida coastline gleamed beneath the afternoon sun.
Sarah let out a low whistle, shaking her head in disbelief. “Remind me never to play poker with you, kid. That was textbook.”
Malachi smiled faintly, looking out past the wingtip toward the horizon where the Atlantic met the sky in an endless, seamless line of gold and blue.
May you like
His phone buzzed in his flight bag—a text message from Grace Holloway back in Atlanta: “Saw your radar track crossing the Gulf. Your dad would be smiling right now, Captain.”
Malachi typed back a single, quiet response: “Always flying with us.”
