ECHOES OF THE TERMINAL FLOOR

Mark didn't hesitate. "Rex, out!" he roared, lunging forward to yank the rear cruiser door wide. The German Shepherd erupted from the vehicle in a flash of black and tan fur, clearing the asphalt just as Mark hurled himself behind a concrete retaining wall that separated the parking lot from the highway drainage culvert.

The detonation was not a fiery cinema blast; it was a high-pressure concussion that buckled the cruiser's roof and blew the windshield into millions of glittering pellets. The shockwave slammed Mark against the wet concrete, driving the air from his lungs. The sharp smell of burnt plastic and chemical accelerant rolled over the barrier in a thick, suffocating cloud.

Mark lay flat in the muddy grass for two agonizing seconds, his ears ringing with a continuous, piercing whine. Rain showered down through the smoke, hissing as it hit the twisted, burning frame of the vehicle's engine block.

"Rex!" Mark coughed, pushing himself up onto his elbows, mud clinging to his tactical fleece.

A wet nose shoved hard into his neck. Rex was trembling slightly, ears plastered flat against his skull, but the dog’s limbs were intact. Mark grabbed the dog’s harness, pulling him down behind the barrier as secondary pops from the patrol vehicle's ammunition rounds cooked off inside the burning cabin.

The message was clear: they knew he had the locker key. They knew he was on the line. And they weren't waiting for him to reach Basin Point.

Mark checked the courier pouch. The thick nylon had shielded the contents from the blast. He zipped it open inside his jacket, using his body to shield it from the downpour. Inside were three items: the ancient airline pass of Elena Vance, a waterproof plastic cylinder containing a handwritten travel ledger, and an unmarked access card encoded with an executive jet hangar badge.

Mark checked his watch. Three hours and forty-one minutes remained before the capsule inside Leo broke down.

He couldn't use transit radio. He couldn't call precinct dispatch. His cruiser was a burning skeleton, and his identity was officially burned across county transit channels.

Mark looked down the wet access road toward the commercial freight district. Half a mile away, the yellow lights of an independent 24-hour fleet garage glowed against the dark belly of the storm clouds.