Chapter 9 - The Salt Marsh Run
"Back door, now," Mark whispered, catching Rex’s tactical collar with two fingers.
Sal didn't ask questions. He reached for a wall lever, releasing an overhead chain that raised the rear bay door just three feet off the ground—enough for a truck to clear if the suspension was low. Mark vaulted into the cab of the battered Dodge Ram, turning the key. The starter ground with a dry, metallic screech before the V8 engine caught with a low, guttering roar.
Rex leaped through the open passenger window, landing across the bench seat as Mark slammed the transmission into reverse.
The rear bay door burst outward in a shower of splintering wood and glass. Two men in tactical rain gear entered the garage, assault rifles raised to their shoulders. Sal hit the deck behind an engine block, screaming curses as suppressed rounds whined through the workshop, punching neat, ragged holes through the metal lockers.
Mark jammed the accelerator to the floor. The Dodge leaped backward through the opening, tires chewing through gravel and wet mud as the rear bumper sheared off the lower tracks of the rolling door. The truck swung around violently in the muddy alley. Mark slammed the shifter into drive, tires catching traction on the broken tarmac, rocketing forward into the narrow alleyway just as automatic fire shattered the passenger side mirror.
Rex stayed flat on the seat, his teeth bared, eyes locked on Mark's face.
"Good boy," Mark grunted, cutting the truck's headlights completely. He knew this coastal industrial sector by heart. For five years, before joining the airport K9 division, he had patrolled these tidal flats for harbor smuggling.
He plunged the truck off the paved access road, wheels sinking inches into the dark, sodden muck of the salt marsh trail. Tall reeds whipped against the fenders like wet wire brushes. The heavy four-wheel drive groaned as it dragged the heavy chassis through standing seawater.
In the rearview mirror, Mark saw the twin beams of the pursuit SUVs cresting the rise behind the garage. They were equipped with high-intensity infrared lightbars, moving fast, slicing through the storm like predatory sharks.
Mark glanced down at his dashboard clock. Two hours and twelve minutes.
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The truck crested a low gravel dike overlooking the dark expanse of Basin Point. Below them, through the torrential rain, the abandoned seaplane terminal was ablaze with portable floodlights. Three black helicopters sat on the broken asphalt, their rotor blades turning slowly in the mist, slicing the air with a rhythmic, menacing thrum.
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