Three

      Queens, New York

      As the taxi raced through the skyscraper-lined streets, Kate searched for updates on her phone.

      Nothing so far.

      She set up an alert for anything that broke on EastCloud Flight 4990.

      Crosstown traffic was good; there were few double-parkers and unloaders blocking the street, and within minutes they’d entered the Midtown Tunnel. It smelled of exhaust and gleamed gold from headlights reflecting on the walls. As it curved under the East River to Queens, Kate found herself taking stock of her job and her life.

      Wasn’t she living her dream?

      For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to be a reporter and to get her life on track. In spite of all that she’d endured, she’d managed to work her way up the journalistic ladder to a position at Newslead, one of the world’s top news organizations. The global newswire service had bureaus in every major city in the United States and in one hundred countries. Its reputation for excellence had been solidified by awards it had won throughout its history, including twenty-two Pulitzers. Newslead was respected and feared by its chief rivals, such as the Associated Press, Bloomberg and Reuters. Kate was proud to work for Newslead, but things were changing.

      Fierce competition, the corrosive impact of the internet on the distribution of news and the melting number of subscribers continued to exact a toll.

      Kate had to struggle not to pin her hopes on the rumor that Chuck Laneer, the editor who’d hired her at Newslead before he’d left to teach at Columbia after clashing with former management, was returning to help rebuild the news division. Chuck was gruff, wise and old-school. He could kick your butt and respect you at the same time.

      But so far the news of Chuck’s return was only gossip.

      The reality was that anxiety had gripped the newsroom. Management weighed every financial decision extensively. Staff faced constant evaluation. Performance on every news story was scrutinized. Newslead had instituted a “staff efficiency process,” linking story count and story pickup to individual performance assessments. It was championed by Kate’s editor, Reeka Beck, a twenty-eight-year-old Ivy League management zealot.

      Reeka had a cover-girl face, an insatiable ambition and was convinced that her news judgment was superior to that of seasoned journalists. Reeka had been a junior copy editor at Newslead’s Boston bureau, whose collective work had been a finalist for a Pulitzer. In reality, she possessed little reporting experience. She’d never covered a homicide or asked an inconsolable parent for a picture of their dead child.

      But her moneyed bloodline gave her an advantage. Reeka’s uncle sat on Newslead’s board of directors. However, most people strained to tolerate her—her dealings with reporters were often so curt and officious they bordered on rudeness. Conversations with her nearly became confrontations. Reeka had embraced the staff efficiency process even though it was killing morale.

      Last month twenty people were let go from headquarters. Some were news veterans like Liz Cochrane, who’d covered wars, interviewed Mexican drug lords and escaped being kidnapped by terrorists in Iraq. Liz had sat near Kate and that day had been horrible.

      She’d seen Liz falling apart at her desk while reading her severance letter then tenderly placing her belongings in a box for printing paper—A cardboard coffin for my career, she’d joked while saying goodbye.

      Even though Kate had made it through the latest round of terminations, watching the funereal march of dismissed colleagues had been heart-wrenching. She’d been in their shoes; she was familiar with that soul-shattering feeling, for she’d struggled much of her life.

      She was a thirty-two-year-old single mom with a nine-year-old daughter and she was living with her sister, Vanessa. There were days when Kate felt like she was hanging on by her fingertips but she was still here, doing the best that she could because she was a fighter who never gave up.

      The cab left the tunnel and passed through the toll gates. As it accelerated on the Long Island Expressway, Kate’s phone rang.

      It was Reeka. “What’re you doing, Kate?”

      “Heading to LaGuardia. We’ve got a plane in trouble.”

      “You’re not on today. Who assigned you to go to LaGuardia?”

      “No one. I was in the newsroom working on my subway crime feat—”

      “I just spoke with Sloane. He’s on duty and he assures me that this Buffalo jet thing is minor. He’s been listening to the scanners all day.”

      “No, he wasn’t there when I was there, when things were popping!”

      Sloane’s trying to cover his ass by hanging me out to dry—

      “Kate, were you in today hoping to collect overtime?”

      “No. Reeka, listen, I was there on my own time working on my feature when this broke on the scanners. Sloane was out buying scones.”

      “I don’t think so. I know Sloane and if he says—”

      Anger bubbled in Kate just as her phone chimed with a news alert. The Associated Press had issued a bulletin: “Commuter jet with multiple injuries on board declares emergency landing at LaGuardia.”

      “Reeka, did you see what AP’s just put out?”

      A moment passed before Reeka responded.

      “I see it. Okay, get to the airport and file as soon as you can.”