Crusher…Max…Patch…Abigail…Mike…Riley…Sunny…Eli…Lila.
“No one’s fucking answering,” Spike mutters, looking down at his phone.
Bones, Foster, and Skip are all doing the same.
Five hours.
That’s how long it’s going to take us to get back.
“The twins are leading a team and are on their way to the compound,” Maverick says. “They have a couple of doctors with them.”
Just in case.
He doesn’t say it…but we all hear it.
It’ll take them half an hour to get to the compound from Maverick’s estate.
So much can happen in thirty minutes.
“Why the hell have we not put a landline down in the bunker?” Foster asks. “Stupid move.”
“Wouldn’t matter if they’re all dead,” Skip says, clearly spiraling. “Come on, pretty boy. Answer the damn phone.”
“Once the bunker doors are sealed, their cell reception will be cut off,” Foster says. “Them not answering our calls isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
The jet hums like a giant metal coffin.
No one’s talking.
No one’s sleeping.
Six grown men who have faced gunfire, cartels, and torture rooms, and every single one of us is staring at our phones like they might suddenly bring our family safely on board.
Foster’s laptop is open on the table between the seats, multiple screens running at once. Code windows. Network maps. Camera icons.
He’s typing fast…faster than I’ve ever seen him move…as he tries to gain access to our security feed.
“Come on…” he mutters under his breath.
“Anything?” Spike asks from across the aisle.
Foster exhales sharply.
“I’ve got the outer compound network,” he says, tapping the keyboard again. “Perimeter cameras, gate cameras, roofline sensors. I even have the feed from inside the clubhouse. But the bunker feed isn’t responding.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“The bunker is on a closed system,” he says without looking up. “Isolated network. It doesn’t run through the same internet line as the compound cameras.”
“That’s bad?” Skip asks.
“It’s good for security,” Foster replies. “Terrible for long-distance access.”
He opens another window and runs something across the screen.
“I’m connected through the jet’s satellite internet,” he explains, almost to himself. “Which is already slow as hell because we’re thirty-five thousand feet in the air and bouncing signals off a damn satellite.”
“So you can’t get the bunker feed?” I press.
