I don’t remember taking either.
Then the vinyl flap snaps open.
Skye steps out, pulling off her gloves. “He’s stable for transport,” she says. “We need to move him—now.”
Ghost nods once.
“Load him.”
The surgical team wheels Jackson out, monitors still attached, IV bags swinging gently. He’s pale. Too pale. His chest rises shallowly under the oxygen mask.
My blood goes cold.
“You’re coming with us.” Ghost guides me beside the stretcher.
That word—with—nearly undoes me.
The team lifts Jackson into the back of the van on a stretcher, along with enough medical gear to run a small clinic. Skye climbs in beside him. Tia secures equipment. The rest distribute across the seats.
Ghost opens the door to an SUV.
“You ride with the team.”
I climb in. I don’t ask where we’re going.
It doesn’t matter.
Jackson’s teammates pile into the SUV.
Doors slam.
The engine hums to life.
We pull away from the loading dock into the quiet Chicago night.
Nothing dramatic.
No sirens.
Just empty streets sliding past in blurred streaks of orange under the streetlamps.
Ghost sits in the front passenger seat, phone to his ear, issuing clipped instructions to someone I can’t hear.
We cross over the river, then slip into an industrial district—warehouses, fences, delivery trucks parked in neat rows. The city noise fades into the hum of tires on asphalt.
Ten minutes later, we turn through an unmarked gate.
A security guard waves us through without stopping the vehicle.
Beyond the fence:
A lineup of private hangars.
A single jet with its cabin lights glowing warm in the dark.
The van stops at the base of the ramp.
Skye doesn’t waste a second. “Let’s move.”
