Samantha peeked between the door and the jamb, back at the cabin.
The raptors were there, spearheaded by Mohawk. They had all gathered in first class—four of them, she realized, not three—and were waiting, patiently.
“We’ve got company,” she said.
“What about the passengers?” asked Karen suddenly. “The other flight attendants? My brother, he was serving in first class—”
Peter and Samantha stared at each other: The empty seats. The wet, gristly eating sounds.
“Darling, listen,” said Peter, modulating his voice carefully. “I can explain everything. But we’ve got to get into the cockpit, do you understand?”
There was the briefest of pauses. “Well, come on in, what are you waiting for ...”
And she began opening the door, completely oblivious to the threat, at which instant Peter shoved
