Chapter 4 - The Impact Zone
The steel cage hit the concrete floor with an ear-splitting crash of twisting iron and bursting rivets. Sparks showered the sorting room like a firework, spraying across the damp floor.
Rex leaped back, letting out a sharp bark as Mark threw his arm up to shield his eyes from the flying debris. Through the dense cloud of rising dust and pulverized rubber, Mark caught a glimpse of the mechanic darting through the secondary fire barrier leading directly out toward the perimeter tarmac.
"Rex, stay!" Mark bellowed, vaulting over a buckled roller section. He sprinted through the haze, boots crunching on broken glass and dropped luggage locks. He shoved the swinging steel fire doors open, bursting into the whipping wind and horizontal drizzle of the airport runway.
The runway was a maze of service vehicles, white catering trucks, and baggage trains maneuvering under the tails of massive long-haul planes. Fifty yards away, the man in the mechanic’s jumpsuit leaped onto the back of an unbranded white service van. The vehicle didn't wait for him to close the rear doors; its tires screeched against the slick tarmac, leaving dark smears of smoking rubber as it sped toward the airport perimeter fence.
Mark raised his firearm, sight picture locking onto the left rear tire. He hesitated. A passenger shuttle was crossing the service road two hundred yards downrange, completely blind to the pursuit. Mark lowered the gun, cursing under his breath as the cold rain plastered his hair to his forehead.
He pulled his sidearm back into its retention holster and snapped the latch shut. His knuckles throbbed from the cold. Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out the small, blood-stained silver key.
*Locker 412.*
The suspect hadn't named a terminal, but Mark had worked security details long enough to know where legacy mechanical lockers still existed. Every digital locker in the modern terminals had replaced manual brass keys five years ago, except for one location: the old Greyhound intermodal terminal linked to the airport's east cargo bay.
Mark’s radio suddenly roared back to life, cutting through the silence with unexpected clarity.
"All units, this is Transit Dispatch. We have an unconfirmed report of an incident at St. Jude Trauma Wing. K9-Unit 4, report your location immediately. Unit 4, do you copy?"
Mark pressed the talk button with his thumb, his throat dry. "Unit 4 on site at runway periphery. What's the status on the boy from Terminal 3?"
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The dispatcher's voice cracked, sounding unusually strained. "Officer Vance, the transport ambulance was intercepted three blocks from the trauma bay. The boy is gone."
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