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“Occupants?”
“Two in the truck. Three in the pickup.”
“Any weapons visible?”
“Passenger in pickup has a rifle.”
“Kane?”
“Copy.”
“Trent?”
“Copy.”
“Holt takes the rifle. Trent disables the pickup. Arthur covers. Kane takes the truck passenger. Will and I take the driver.”
Nobody answers.
They don’t need to.
The truck engine reaches us before the vehicle appears.
Dust rises beyond a low hill.
Then the refrigerated truck crests it.
The black pickup follows.
“Holt,” Kane says.
“Target confirmed.”
The passenger in the pickup raises the rifle.
He has seen something.
Maybe the helicopter.
Maybe us.
He points toward the sky.
The shot from Holt’s rifle reaches him before he fires.
The weapon falls from his hands.
The pickup swerves.
Trent shoots the front tire.
Rubber explodes.
The vehicle leaves the road and crashes through a wire fence.
The refrigerated truck accelerates.
“Driver isn’t stopping,” Taylor warns.
