32. Took You Long Enough
Chapter thirty-two
Took You Long Enough
Matt
The city isn’t the chaotic war zone from week one. Not anymore. It’s quiet. The usual signs of life—market stalls, street vendors, civilians in clusters—gone. Now it’s closed shops, empty courtyards, streets lined with abandoned vehicles.
Not deserted. Waiting.
I keep my rifle tight to my shoulder, scanning rooftops as we go. The last thing we need is a sniper in the dark.
Demo breaks the silence. “Anyone else feel like we’re walking into an ambush?”
Charlie mutters, “I was trying not to say it.”
Bishop doesn’t slow. “Eyes up. Keep moving.”
Steele holds the middle of the stack, comms still live—but Hale’s gone dark. His last transmission was twenty mikes ago. Since then, nothing but static.
Steele adjusts his earpiece, voice low. “No updates. He’s either out of range or—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I mutter.
We push another block. Then another. The roads widen, the buildings shrink, and the airstrip’s outer perimeter comes into view.
We stop. Something’s not right.
Bishop drops into a crouch behind a rusted-out truck, signaling hold. I lower next to him, locked on the airstrip. It isn’t empty. Far from it.
Multiple vehicles. Armed personnel. And—
I curse under my breath. People already on the ground, setting up. Not a ragtag militia.
“These guys are organized,” I murmur.
Bishop’s jaw sets. “Because they’re trained.”
Steele slides beside me, adjusting his optic. “Equipment’s too clean. Weapons look western.”
Not locally funded. Someone with money gave them gear, weapons, training.
Someone like us.
Demo exhales through his nose. “A rogue PMC?”
Bishop doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
We hunker down, bodies crouched behind the rusted shell of an old cargo truck.
The airstrip stretches ahead in pale moonlight, the runway long and empty except for the men guarding it.
Bishop scans through his scope. “Counting a minimum of four fire teams. Perimeter spread out, but tight enough sneaking through isn’t an option.”
Steele tweaks his radio, whisper-low. “Catching fragments of their comms. Encryption’s weak—trained, but not elite.”
That’s a start, at least.
Demo shifts. “We hitting them or waiting it out?”
The goal is simple—secure an exit. Not gonna happen if we’re outgunned and pinned down before we reach the tarmac. I turn to Steele. “Anything useful?”
He fine-tunes his signal, listening. “Hold on. Picking up chatter…”
Seconds pass. His gaze flicks to mine. “Something’s coming in.”
Bishop’s grip tightens on his rifle. “Define ‘something’.”
Steele frowns. “Not clear. Just caught a reference to inbound cargo, high-security escort.” He pauses. “And they’re talking about clearing a holding area.”
A chill crawls over me. “They’re prepping for an arrival.”
Demo clenches his jaw. “Shit.”
Charlie whispers, “Could be supplies. Could be personnel.”
No one speaks. We all know the answer. High-value targets—prisoners. Were we supposed to be part of this shipment? My stomach twists.
Bishop scans terrain again. “Options?”
“Either we hit them now,” Demo says, “or we wait and see what lands.”
Steele doesn’t look convinced. “If we wait, we risk getting trapped between incoming forces and the guys already here.”
“Or,” Bishop counters, “we get eyes on exactly what’s inbound.”
I check my watch. Hale is still out there. If he’s close, we need to move before he gets caught up in this.
I glance at Bishop. His call.
He exhales. “We wait. But we don’t sit idle.”
Charlie nods. “I’ll set up overwatch.”
Demo mutters under his breath but doesn’t argue.
Steele tunes his radio. “I’ll keep pulling what I can. If it sounds bad, we go.”
Bishop shifts his rifle. “Mason, you and me—watch for our opening.”
I nod. We aren’t just waiting. We’re hunting. The second we know what’s coming, we advance.
The night stretches thin. Demo and Charlie slide into recon positions, keeping watch on the militia. Steele crouches, earpiece in, tracking chatter. Then he stiffens, muttering, “Incoming.”
Moments later we hear it. Engines. Low at first, then growing—something heavy cutting through the sky.
Then headlights. Vehicles. Dust plumes rising as they roll down a back road toward the strip.
Bishop adjusts his scope. “Looks like—” He stops, voice tight.
I lift my optics. My stomach knots. Trucks. Armed escort. And in the center—
A transport vehicle. Not cargo. Prisoners.
Steele’s whisper is grim. “This isn’t a supply run.”
Charlie swears. I watch militia step forward as the convoy slows. A guard bangs twice on the metal side.
Seconds later—the doors swing open and the first prisoner steps out. My blood runs cold. Recognition slams into me before I even realize the word is out of my mouth.
“Hale.”
The team stills.
Steele’s jaw locks. “Shit.”
“We move. Now.” Bishop's tone is cold.
And just like that, the wait is over. Demo signals silently—five men near the transport, six more spread across the strip. Controlled force. Not ready for an ambush.
Bishop nods once. “We hit hard and fast. Don’t stop moving.”
I lock eyes with Steele. “On my mark, cut their comms.”
He has the jammer ready. “Copy.”
I grip my rifle, line up the shot. “Move.”
Steele activates it and chaos erupts. The second their radios go dark, panic spreads. Guns snap up, but we’re already on them.
Demo fires first, dropping a guard before the rest react. Charlie and I push left, laying cover as Bishop and Steele turn right.
Men at the transport scramble. One grabs Hale, trying to drag him back inside—two rounds drop him before he moves a step.
Hale breaks free. His hands are bound, but he’s still fighting. His gaze sweeps the battlefield in half a second before locking on me.
He grins. “Took you long enough.”
I duck under fire, slide behind cover, and toss him my knife. “Shut up and cut yourself loose.”
Hale catches it like we’ve drilled it a hundred times.
Bishop’s voice cracks in my earpiece. “Clear a path. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”
“On it.”
I pivot. Biggest threat—the watchtower. The guard there finally clocks what’s happening. He raises his rifle—
I squeeze the trigger before he can aim. Headshot. His body slams into the sand below.
“Tower down,” I announce. “Go.”
We cut through the last of the resistance, breaking for a small hangar at the strip’s edge.
Inside? One plane. Light transport. Big enough for us, small enough to take off quick.
Charlie’s already moving. “That’s mine.”
Bishop covers the entrance. “You better be as good as you say.”
Charlie straps into the cockpit, flipping switches. “I was flying before I could walk.”
Engines roar.
Demo drags Hale toward the hold. “You good?”
Hale flexes his wrists, rolling his shoulders. “Tied up, thrown in a truck? Call it Tuesday.”
I drop into the seat beside Charlie. “How fast can you get in the air?”
He shoots me a look. “How fast do you want to die?”
Gunfire rattles the hangar walls. More militia closing in.
Bishop’s tone is sharp. “Wheels up—now.”
Charlie shoves the throttle forward. The plane lurches, skidding onto the tarmac.
Rounds ping off the fuselage. A truck swerves in from the left quick, aiming to block our escape.
Demo braces at the side door, rifle up—a single shot. Driver down. The truck veers, crashes into a dune.
“Down,” Demo mumbles.
I exhale. “We clear?”
Hale settles into his seat, strapping in. “Not yet.”
Charlie lines up the nose, eyes on the runway. “Brace.”
Then we’re airborne. Silence.
The strip falls away, desert and darkness stretching beneath us.
Bishop leans on the bulkhead, exhaling. “Everyone accounted for?”
A round of affirmatives. No losses. We’re alive.
Steele, still keyed up, looks at Hale. “How’d they get you?”
Hale smirks. “Bad luck. Got made near the outskirts. Thought they’d kill me. Guess I was worth more alive.”
No one likes that answer.
Bishop sits forward. “We need a destination.”
Charlie adjusts the controls. “Fuel’s good, but not unlimited.”
Hale’s smirk fades. He glances at me. “Tell me you’ve got somewhere to land.”
I breathe hard, running through our nonexistent options. Callahan doesn’t know where we are. No friendly LZs. And we’re not done running.
I meet Bishop’s gaze. “We figure it out on the way.”