Chapter 3

3

Two hours later, with his stomach full of the best lasagna east of the Sierra, Jason eased the sleek turbo prop to a stop on the cracked tarmac of the abandoned airfield outside Boise. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. He powered down the engine, letting the propeller spin down. Muscles tense with anticipation, he scanned the area. The deserted airfield stretched before him—a ghostly remnant of better days.

His heart quickened at the sight of Robbie “Gravy” Munsinger’s form emerging from behind a rusted fuel truck, moving with all the grace of a newborn calf. The guy was built like a tank—pure muscle and raw power. At medium height, he wasn’t the tallest operator Jason had worked with, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in sheer strength. His fresh face and that ridiculous stand-up hair belied the deadly skillset Jason knew he possessed. Not the fastest mover, but Gravy could hold his own in any firefight.

Gravy’s familiar, goofy grin was visible even from this distance, his duffle bag bouncing against his leg as he trotted toward the plane.

Jason climbed out of the cockpit and headed for the door, unlatching it.

The sharp crack of gunfire split the air. Gravy’s eyes widened in comical surprise before he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

No way. No. Way.

Jason’s hand flew to his holster. He leapt from the plane, drawing his Glock. More shots rang out, bullets pinging off the Pilatus’s fuselage. His gaze snapped to the row of hangars, catching a glimpse of muzzle flashes in the fading light.

His mind raced, cataloging threats and escape routes. The plane wouldn’t protect them for long—especially if the fuel ignited.

“Gravy! Nine o’clock! The hangar!” he bellowed, returning fire. “Move your rear!”

Jason zigzagged across the tarmac, pulse thundering in his ears. Another volley of shots kicked up rocks at his feet. He dove; the rough concrete scraped his arms. He rolled and came up firing.

A pained yelp sounded from the far hangar. One down. At least two more shooters remained, based on the gunfire pattern.

He hauled Munsinger to his feet. “Can you run?”

Gravy nodded grimly. “Think so.”

They sprinted for the nearest shelter—a smaller hangar with peeling paint and rusted doors. Jason fired at the ancient padlock, splintering it open.

They stumbled inside, gasping. The musty air reeked of old oil and rodent droppings, coating Jason’s tongue with a foul taste.

“Not good,” Gravy panted. “So not good.”

A searing pain lanced through Jason’s side. He hissed, glancing down to see his shirt darkening with blood. “Definitely not good.”

Munsinger’s eyes widened. “You’re hit!”

Jason probed the wound with his fingers, feeling the shallow furrow in his flesh. The bullet had grazed him, tearing through skin and muscle but missing anything vital. It was deeper than he’d like, but not life-threatening.

He tugged his shirt back down, assessing their options. They needed cover and mobility. His eyes darted around the hangar, searching for anything useful. Just an old oil drum and a 1950s desk with one broken drawer. Old rags and cleaning supplies spilled out onto the ground.

Taking shallow breaths, he fought to ignore the throbbing pain in his side. “Where’s your vehicle?”

“Other side of the hangars. About three units down—not close enough.”

“What’s in your duffle?”

Gravy’s face scrunched up in concentration. “Uh, clothes, toothbrush, couple of protein bars ...” He rummaged through the bag. “Oh! And my camping gear. Got a small propane tank for my portable stove.”

A plan began to form in Jason’s mind. He glanced at the old oil drum, then back at Gravy’s duffle. “Perfect. Here’s what we’re going to do. I can rig that oil drum with the propane tank and some of the chemicals from that old desk drawer. It won’t be pretty, but it should create enough of a distraction.”

Jason quickly assessed the contents of the desk, finding some old cleaning supplies and a few rusty cans of paint thinner. His explosives expertise kicked in, mind calculating ratios and reactions. He hadn’t actually created an IED in years, but the makeshift device came together in record time.

“Give me your keys,” he ordered.

Gravy backed away. “I’m the one who should go.”

“Nah. I got this.”

“Nope.” Gravy pointed at the line of blood trickling down Jason’s side. “Gonna have to bench you, Major. Sorry, dude. I’ll fire her up and meet you at the door. You take care of the flashbang stuff.”

Fair enough. Much as Jason hated to admit it, he wasn’t sure how fast he’d be. He couldn’t risk blowing their escape.

“Okay. I’ll lay down some cover fire. You take off. Get the truck started and head my way. The second I see you, I’ll light the fuse. The explosion and smoke should give us enough cover to get out of here.”

Gravy nodded, his usual goofy demeanor replaced by focused determination. “You got it, sir. Just like old times, huh?”

Jason allowed himself a grim smile. “Let’s hope our luck holds better than last time. And Gravy? Remind me to talk to you about proper bug-out bag packing when this is over.”

Gravy grinned sheepishly. “Hey, at least I brought snacks.”

Jason took a deep breath, steeling himself for action. He gave Gravy a quick nod, then moved to the edge of the hangar door. In one fluid motion, he swung out and dropped to one knee, squeezing off a rapid series of shots toward the far hangar. The sharp report of his Glock echoed across the airfield.

“Go!” he shouted.

Gravy sprinted toward his pickup. Jason continued firing, his eyes scanning for any movement. The silence from their attackers was unnerving, but he couldn’t dwell on it.

With his free hand, he reached for the makeshift device. The second the hood of Gravy’s truck came into view, he struck the improvised fuse, his heart pounding as it sputtered to life. He hurled it toward the oil drum and broke into a run.

The world exploded into chaos.

The concussive force of the blast hit him like a physical blow, nearly knocking him off his feet. A wall of heat washed over him while he sprinted through billowing clouds of acrid smoke. His ears rang, transforming the world into a muffled, surreal landscape.

Through watering eyes, he saw the truck fishtail to a stop in front of the door, engine running, passenger door flung open. He dove inside, barely getting his legs clear before Gravy stomped on the accelerator.

The truck peeled away from the relative cover of the hangars, tires kicking up gravel. Jason twisted in his seat, straining to see through the smoke for any signs of pursuit. The ringing in his ears made it impossible to discern if they were under fire.

“You see anything?” he yelled, not even sure if Gravy could hear him.

Gravy shook his head, eyes wide and fixed on the road ahead. They bounced and jolted their way to freedom.

As the adrenaline began to ebb, the throbbing in his injured side intensified. He pressed a hand against the wound, grimacing. They weren’t out of danger yet, but for now, they were alive and moving. It would have to be enough.

They fishtailed onto the access road, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. Jason allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Round one to the good guys. Now, if they could just make it to the mysterious extraction point in one piece ...

They’d need to ditch this truck soon, find a way to patch up his injury, and somehow contact his team without leading their pursuers straight to the extraction point.

Just another day at the office.