ECHOES OF THE TERMINAL FLOOR

The Dodge came to a halt behind a rusted corrugated iron hangar that had once housed maintenance gear for amphibious planes. Mark cut the ignition. The only sounds were the driving rain drumming on the truck’s thin tin roof and the distant chop of the helicopter blades.

Mark unclipped his field binoculars from his gear pack, wiping the lenses with the dry lining of his undershirt. He framed the central pier.

Two black Suburbans were parked nose-to-tail near the edge of the deep-water slip. A temporary medical tent had been erected under the awning of the old terminal building. Through the translucent vinyl wall of the tent, Mark could see the silhouettes of three individuals: two men standing guard with long guns, and a third figure bent over a low cot.

Leo.

The boy was still alive, but barely moving. Next to the cot, an IV pole held a clear plastic bag feeding fluids into his arm. Standing outside the tent, leaning against a rusted fuel pump with an umbrella held over his head, was the man from the subterranean baggage tunnels—the mechanic with the scarred eyebrow.

Mark lowered the glass. His jaw was set like stone.

"Rex, vest on," Mark commanded softly. He retrieved the dog's Kevlar patrol vest from the floorboard, buckling the chest clips and securing the underbelly straps. Rex shook himself once, his muscles tensing, fully aware that the hunt had transitioned from tracking to assault.

Mark unzipped the courier pouch and took out the documents. He slipped the handwritten travel ledger into his tactical cargo pocket, but left Elena’s old flight pass tucked securely against his heart.

He didn't know who the mechanic was working for, but the helicopters had corporate tail markings registered to a multinational private security firm based out of Zurich—the same firm that held private transit contracts for high-value cargo clearing through Terminal 3.

Mark checked the wind direction. The gale was blowing in off the bay, straight into their faces. It was an advantage: the guards down on the pier wouldn't hear their approach over the crashing surf and the pounding rain.

"Silent stalk," Mark whispered into Rex's ear.

They slipped out of the truck cab into the driving storm, moving low through the knee-high marsh reeds, closing the distance toward the rear wall of the medical tent.

Fifty yards out, Mark stopped cold. A laser designator, invisible to the naked eye but caught in the faint green illumination of his night sight, danced across the tall grass directly in front of his boots.