Chapter 8 - Off the Grid
The garage smelled of used motor oil, wet tires, and stale chicory coffee. Sal, a retired port mechanic with greasy overalls and a permanent stoop, stood frozen behind a workbench with a lug wrench raised in both hands as Mark kicked the side entrance open.
"Easy, Sal," Mark said, stepping inside and closing the heavy wooden door behind him. Rex slipped in silently, immediately taking up a defensive position near the oil drums by the entrance, his fur dripping wet.
Sal blinked through grease-smudged reading glasses, slowly lowering the iron wrench. "Vance? What the hell happened to you? City radio is screaming bloody murder. Said your unit went up in flames behind the depot. They’re calling you an armed runaway."
"They’re lying," Mark said bluntly, walking straight to the wall rack where keys to private customer fleet trucks hung on brass hooks. "Someone put an incendiary brick on my chassis. I need wheels, Sal. Something that isn't connected to the regional GPS network."
Sal looked at the scorched soot staining the shoulders of Mark's uniform jacket, then down at the German Shepherd whose eyes remained locked on the street outside the dirty shop windows. Sal spat into an empty metal can. "Third bay. Old Dodge Ram. Belonged to a crop inspector who died last month. Engine runs clean, but it ain't got a computer chip newer than 2002. Where are you heading?"
"Basin Point," Mark answered, pulling a set of rusted keys off the board.
Sal's weathered face turned pale. "You stay away from Basin Point, Mark. That whole pier was bought out two months ago by a foreign holding company. High fences, armed private security in slickers, guard boats patrolling the shallows. Word at the docks is they're running high-value transit packages off cargo planes that don't file flight plans."
"My nephew is out there," Mark said, meeting Sal's gaze with an intensity that made the older man take an involuntary half-step back. "My sister's boy."
Sal was silent for a long beat. He turned around, reached into an open toolbox, and pulled out an old waterproof marine spotlight and two extra boxes of 9mm ammunition. He set them on the bench without a word. "Take the back road along the salt marshes. Highway patrol has checkpoints on the main access causeway."
Mark grabbed the ammo, reloading his spare magazines with fast, practiced movements. "Thanks, Sal."
"Don't thank me yet," Sal muttered, looking out through the rain-streaked window. "Look outside."
May you like
Across the street, two black tactical SUVs with tinted windows and blacked-out rims rolled silently to a stop, their headlights shutting off simultaneously.
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