Boone
The lights of Los Angeles spread across the horizon like a glowing ocean.
Logan lowers the helicopter another hundred feet.
“Convoy is five miles ahead,” Wren says, eyes locked on the laptop.
Her fingers move fast across the keyboard.
“Golden Team is in position.”
Russ leans toward the window.
“Man… I wish I could see something.”
Adam checks his watch.
“They’ll be here any second.”
The helicopter banks slightly.
Below us the freeway stretches empty through the desert outskirts of the city.
Then—
Headlights appear.
Three vehicles.
Moving fast.
Too fast.
“There,” Wren says.
Logan angles the helicopter forward.
“That’s our convoy.”
The vehicles race down the highway at nearly a hundred miles an hour.
Black SUVs.
Tight formation.
Professional drivers.
“Golden Team,” I say into the headset radio.
“We have visual.”
River’s voice answers immediately.
“Copy that.”
“We see them.”
“Convoy is approaching your position.”
