44
Miranda’s inner calm was shredding.
Thirty minutes to the airport—in the Jeep that had turned out not to be a taxi after all—fifteen miles from Avalon at the far end of Santa Catalina Island. The flight to the mainland had taken under five minutes. Taxiing to the terminal at Santa Monica Airport had taken five more…and the four miles to the hospital took twenty through evening rush-hour traffic. Sixty minutes in transit.
And her calm wasn’t shredding just at the fringes.
Ninety-seven minutes since the departure of the Ghostrider from Andrews Air Force Base with Jeremy and Mike aboard. Cruise speed of four hundred miles per hour equaled six hundred and forty-seven miles, not accounting for lower ground speed during climb-out to cruising altitude.
If they’d roughly held their heading
