Griff didn't need more encouragement. “Go.” He pushed her toward the opening.
They erupted from the salt. His shoulder gave out as he tried to vault over the hopper's edge—Sarah caught him, white crystals cascading off them both.
"Move." Doc's voice carried over the chaos. Another shotgun blast. "This isn't a cotillion."
Sarah half-dragged Griff toward the truck. Five steps.Four. A contractor popped up from behind a pickup—Doc's shotgun convinced him to reconsider.
They dove through the open doors. The smells hit her first. Gun powder, cooking oil, and what might have been lobster bisque.
"Secure." Griff shouted and threw the door shut.
Doc tossed him her weapon with impossible grace for a sixty-something in pearls. "Buckle up, children."
She threw it in reverse. Sarah grabbed a ceiling rail as her stomach tried to exit through her throat. Through the windshield, she watched contractors scrambling for vehicles—but Griff's chaos had done its job. Running trucks blocked everything.
"Brilliant work with the heat signatures," Doc called back, grinning. Then she shoved the truck in forward and hit the gas, threading between two salt trucks at impossible speed.
"You know tactics?" Griff sounded impressed.
"Young man, I was blowing things up before you were born."
They burst through the hole in the fence Doc had created, fishtailing onto the service road. Sarah caught a glimpse of pursuit—two SUVs had managed to clear the depot chaos.
"Company," Griff warned.
"I see them." Doc was absolutely calm, like they were discussing tea preferences. She pulled out a phone one-handed while taking a corner at fifty. "Julius? Yes, dear. Two vehicles, three minutes behind. The usual, please."
The truck's interior was surreal. Sarah catalogued it with the part of her brain that wasn't screaming—medical supplies that belonged in a trauma center, weapons that belonged in an armory, and a full espresso machine bolted to one wall. Her mentor had turned a food truck into a mobile command center.
"You've done this before," Sarah said, not quite a question.
"Once or twice." Doc ran a red light without even checking the empty street. "Different truck, though. The last one died in Prague."
"Prague?" Sarah's voice climbed. "What were you doing in?—"
"Long story. Involves the Russian mob and a very angry chef." Doc checked her mirror. "Ah, there we go."
Through the back window, Sarah saw one pursuing SUV suddenly swerve, its front tire exploding. It spun out, blocking the road. The second SUV had to brake hard to avoid it.
"Spike strip?" Griff asked.
"Julius does love the classic approaches." Doc pulled onto Route 7, suddenly driving at exactly the speed limit. "He'll delay them long enough for us to disappear."
"Doc," Sarah started carefully, "I should explain?—"
"Later, dear. First we get somewhere safe, get your friend properly patched up." Doc met her eyes in the mirror. "Though I am curious why military contractors are trying to kill my former student long before dawn."
"It's... complicated."
"The best stories always are." Doc pulled through a hidden gate. "But whatever you've stumbled into, it must be significant. That wasn't a random hit team. Those were professionals."
"Stillwater Defense Solutions," Griff said quietly.
Doc's hands tightened on the wheel. "Now that is a name I haven't heard in a while. They were supposed to be defunct."
"You know about Stillwater?" Sarah leaned forward.
"Nasty group. Private military contractors with a reputation for playing very dirty. If they're involved... Well, then you definitely need somewhere secure to explain everything." She swept the side mirrors. “Julius handled clean up. Quitesatisfactory. We’re not far now. You two sit back and take a breath, will you? We’ve time enough to talk once we’re stationary.”
