They slid inside and the convoy tore away from the coast road toward the boarding strip, gravel spitting under tires like shrapnel, escort lights slicing the night in violent streaks of red and blue. The interior of the lead vehicle smelled of leather, cold coffee, and the faint metallic tang of fear.
Inside, Aldrich was already issuing orders in a voice like grinding stone.
"Get the mayors to hold him at the border cities."
"They're trying, sire."
"Trying is not holding."
His voice sharpened to a blade's edge—the kind of edge that had ended careers and, on darker days, lives.
"Tell them to stop him."
A pause. Then, quieter but no less dangerous: "Tell them to do whatever it takes."
---
At the airstrip the jet was fueled and waiting, stairs lowered like a mouth about to swallow them whole. Running lights blinked along the fuselage. A ground crew stood at attention, their faces hollow in the glare.
