One of the “hostage takers” was reading from a notebook: “President Crusoe, we have your wife. If you want her back, you will do what we say. If you want her back alive, you will do it quickly.”

In the room, in real time, Natalie had thought that the ransom statement felt completely clichéd, overly dramatic, and stagey, but on camera it was tense, powerful. From a purely entertainment perspective, she had to admit, it was good TV.

Amazing what good lighting and the right cameraperson could do.

On screen, one of the he-men snatched the bag off Natalie’s head and now her face was on camera looking like a #BadMorningAfter. She had the hair of an unkempt child and eyeliner smudged under her eyes.

Real Natalie shot an angry glance at Matt, who gave an exaggerated shrug, miming powerlessness. “What could I do? It looked authentic. They love authenticity! Anyway it’s good.”

Natalie looked around and saw that people all over the plane were watching the piece. Including the woman to her left. Part of her had to admit the setup was pretty captivating.

On screen, a voice barked, “We’ve got company! Breach! Move the package now!” The camera wavered crazily as the pling pling pling sound of gunshots erupted. Then came a bright flash of light and smoke filled the room. The smoke parted and suddenly a huge bronze-colored forearm with a tattoo of an eagle wrapped itself around Natalie’s waist.

“This is X Team 1. I’ve got the package,” Eagle Tattoo barked into a wrist radio.

It seemed to Natalie as though the passengers were holding their collective breath as the monitor cut to a great tracking shot of Natalie and Eagle Tattoo bolting down a corridor running hard—did they have a Steadicam on this shoot?—weaving back and forth, then out a door. They were running across a vast lawn when Eagle Tattoo pushed her into a waiting Jeep, climbed in after her, and took off, spraying gravel everywhere. Natalie remembered that two cameras had been locked down on the dashboard. She now saw that as the car rocketed forward through a flurry of gunfire, smashed through a chain-link fence and went careening down a steep rocky slope, they captured her doing an excellent imitation of Edward Munch’s The Scream.

Natalie’s heart sped up as she watched Eagle Tattoo deftly maneuver the Jeep over a small stream, then stop beneath a leafy tree. Then Tattoo pulled off the mask and unfolded a slow, simmering smile. “Hey. I’m Julia.”

Tattoo, it’d turned out, was a massive woman. She’d looked like an action hero: at least six-two, ripped, with a chiseled face, cropped brown hair, gray hooded eyes, and a jaw so square it could chip ice. It was as if The Rock and Joan of Arc had a love child who grew up to do private security.