Out the other side, soaked and steaming in the cold air. The fence had been cut—the contractors were inside the depot now, moving between the running vehicles, weapons raised.
Two minutes.
"The salt spreader," Griff whispered, pointing to the largest truck—a massive orange beast with a covered hopper full of salt mixture. "Inside."
He boosted Sarah into the hopper, then hauled himself up, his shoulder almost giving out. They dropped into three feet of salt and sand mixture, the crystals getting everywhere—clothes, hair, wounds. He bit down on a hiss of pain.
"This won't hide us?—"
"Salt disperses heat signatures," he said, pulling her down until they were buried to their chests. "The tons of minerals around us will diffuse our thermal images."
Through the hopper opening, he could see flashlights sweeping between vehicles. Thermal imaging operators calling out coordinates. Getting closer.
One minute.
A contractor climbed onto their truck's running board, flashlight sweeping the cab. If he looked in the hopper?—
Classical music exploded across the depot. Vivaldi's "Winter" at concert volume, echoing off the salt domes.
"What the—" A pursuer’s voice came from right beside their truck, his boots scraping on the running board.
The music grew louder, accompanied by a diesel engineroaring at full throttle. A massive crash shook the entire depot—metal shrieking, chain link singing as it tore.
"Contact. Vehicle inbound."
Boots hit the ground, running away from their position. Multiple voices shouting, redirecting to the new threat.
Griff raised his head carefully from the salt, high enough to see through the hopper opening. A yellow food truck had plowed straight through the fence line, taking out a section twenty feet wide. It spun a perfect J-turn, bed sliding around, back doors already open. A silver-haired woman sat behind the wheel, shotgun pointing outward, looking like someone's grandmother had decided to enact Taken.
"That's her," Sarah whispered from beside him, salt crystals in her hair. "That's Doc."
Muzzle flashes lit up the night. Doc's shotgun boomed twice—suppressing fire, not aimed to kill. Professional.
"Now," Griff ordered, pulling Sarah up with him.
They erupted from the salt, crystals cascading everywhere. Griff half-fell from the bin, his shoulder finally giving out. Sarah caught him, surprisingly strong for someone her size.
The blasts were echoed on two sides by automatic weapons fire. Also carefully placed. The woman had brought a small army.
He wanted to kiss her.
Instead, he shoved Sarah toward the truck.
18
"Do you hear that?"
The man on their truck jumped off the running board as Vivaldi blasted at war volume.
A massive crash shook the depot—metal shrieking, chain link screaming. Sarah couldn't see anything from inside the bin, but she felt Griff tense beside her.
"Yellow food truck," he reported. "Ten feet away."
The back doors of something slammed open. Then a voice Sarah knew—cultured, commanding, and currently furious: "Out. Now."
A shotgun boomed twice. Tires exploded.
"That's Doc." Sarah gasped.
