His stomach tightened violently the second he saw her.
She stumbled coming out of the building, wrists zip-tied in front of her while one of the Florida men gripped her upper arm hard enough to nearly drag her.
Even from this distance, Grant could tell she was exhausted.
Cold.
Terrified.
The man jerked her forward roughly when she slowed.
Grant’s jaw locked so hard it hurt.
“Easy,” Scout’s voice had warned him earlier before disappearing down the ridge toward Burke’s teams.
Too late for easy.
Grant keyed the radio clipped to his vest.
“She’s outside.”
Static crackled.
Then Burke’s voice:
“Confirm visual.”
Grant swallowed hard.
“I’ve got visual on Izzy and Cal.” His voice roughened instantly. “Two hostages. Six… no—eight suspects near the strip.”
Below him, another set of lights flicked on.
Long white runway markers glowing faintly against cracked asphalt, hidden deep in the mountain trees.
Then, a distant engine rolled through the mountains.
Low.
Growing louder.
Grant’s stomach dropped.
The jet.
He adjusted the binoculars sharply.
Lights appeared above the ridgeline.
Fast.
“Aircraft inbound,” Grant said immediately into the radio.
Below him, the men near the strip started moving more quickly.
The larger pallets were being repositioned near the runway.
One of the men shoved Izzy toward the edge of the strip harder than necessary.
