I heard the crackle of his radio and his muffled voice as he muttered instructions into it.
Then the glass doors were sliding open, a blast of fresh air hitting me in the face on the way out.
I looked both ways and spotted Jagger a hundred feet from the terminal with Martin, both of them rooted to the asphalt as they spotted us flying out of the building.
“What’s—” Martin started.
Jagger clapped him on the back and started moving away from him. “Thanks for the tour, Martin. The place is great. I’ll definitely keep it in mind.”
Jagger took off at a sprint toward us. “Let’s fucking go!”
We raced for the G-Wagon and tumbled into the car in a chaotic array: Hawk driving this time, me in the passenger seat, Vigo and Jagger in the back.
Vigo whooped as Hawk started the engine and gunned the car in reverse with a screech of tires.
I turned to look out the rear window and spotted Martin standing on the tarmac, barking at two security guards, one of whom was talking into his radio, while two more came after us on foot.
Jagger must have seen it too.
“Shit,” he said. “I think they’re calling ahead to the gate.”
Up ahead, the guard who’d let us into the terminal stepped out of the shack, his radio in his hand. He glanced our way, pressed a button attached to the shack, and a spike strip unfurled in front of the wooden security bar.
“There’s a spike thingy!” I shouted.
“What the fuck is a spike thingy?” Vigo asked.
“Spike strip,” Hawk ground out, his jaw clenched.
Vigo reached for his bat. “I got it.”
“Don’t hurt the guard!” I shrieked.
“Who said anything about hurting the guard?”
Vigo pressed a button on the door and his window retracted with a hum.
We were hurtling toward the guard shack — the spike strip, the wooden arm of the security bar lowered — when Vigo pulled himself onto the edge of the open window, his bat in hand.
“What are you?— ”
It was all I managed to get out before he swung at the button on the side of the guard shack.
It collapsed on itself, sinking into the wooden shack as the guard jumped out of the way, the spike strip retracting right before we cruised over it.
Hawk didn’t even slow down as he drove through the wooden arm, still lowered to keep us from leaving.
It splintered in a shower of wood and plastic.
“Sorry about that!” Vigo called back to the guard, now sprawled on the asphalt. “No hard feelings!”
Hawk scowled, eyeing Vigo in the rearview mirror. “No hard feelings?”
“What?” Vigo asked as we sped away from the airport. “It’s called manners. Get some.”
39
JAGGER
