Chapter 14 - Blood in the Desert Sand
"Who is that?!" I shouted over the deafening roar of automatic weapons fire, pulling my Glock from my shoulder holster.
"Marcus Vance’s clean-up crew!" Julian yelled back, grabbing a heavy pump-action shotgun from a rack behind the workbench. "They must have followed your truck’s satellite ping or tracked my phone when I talked to Marcus last week. They aren't here to negotiate, Grant—they’re here to erase every loose end between us and the trust fund!"
Glass shattered as the front windows of the trailer imploded under a hail of lead. Dust and insulation rained down on our heads as we scrambled toward the rear exit leading out into the sprawling aircraft boneyard.
"We have to split up!" Julian shouted, jacking a shell into his shotgun. "Draw them into the maze of planes! It’s the only way we stand a chance against night-vision gear!"
"I'm not leaving you!" I yelled back, firing two suppressive shots through the shattered door frame.
"We aren't kids playing tag, Grant! Run!" Julian roared, kicking open the rear exit and sprinting directly into the labyrinth of rusting fuselage frames and towering jet engines.
I didn't have a choice. I vaulted through the back door, diving behind the massive, scorched landing gear of a decommissioned Boeing 747. The heavy desert wind whipped through the metal graveyard as tactical flashlights cut through the darkness, sweeping left and right across the sand.
Clack. Clack.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel just meters away from my hiding spot. I held my breath, gripping my Glock with both hands, my finger resting lightly on the trigger.
A shadowy figure in full tactical gear crept around the massive tire, his rifle raised and scanning the shadows.
I didn't hesitate. I lunged forward, sweeping his legs out from under him and driving the butt of my pistol down hard against his helmet visor. He crumpled to the ground unconscious.
Seizing his encrypted tactical radio from his vest, I keyed the mic.
"Sector Four is compromised," I spoke in a low, sharp command voice, mimicking the mercenary cadence. "The targets are splitting up toward the maintenance trench!"
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A chorus of static-laced acknowledgments crackled back across the radio channels, followed by the sound of boots shifting direction away from my position.
I broke cover, sprinting through the dark maze of aluminum hulls toward the perimeter fence where my truck was parked—praying to God that Julian had made it out alive.
