Chapter 12
The tanker truck arrived exactly when Guardian said it would.
Levi watched it through binoculars from a ridge overlooking the airstrip, tracking its progress down the rutted access road. Dawn light painted everything gold and pink, and the jungle was just starting to wake up. Birds screamed their territorial claims, and monkeys chattered in the canopy.
Beside him, Willow lay prone in the grass, her binoculars trained on the facility below. She'd been silent for the last twenty minutes, studying patterns, cataloging details, doing the kind of operational planning that came from years of flying into hostile territory.
“Four guards,” she murmured. “Two at the gate, two inside the fence line. Truck driver makes five.”
“Light security,” Levi agreed. “They're not expecting trouble this far inside their territory.”
“Which means they'll radio for backup the second we make a move.”
“Which is why we take out their communications first.” He lowered the binoculars and pulled a small device from his pack.
A signal jammer, Guardian-issued, good for a half-mile radius.
“This kills their radio, their cell service, everything.
Gives us a ten-minute window before anyone realizes something's wrong.”
“Ten minutes to steal a tanker truck and disappear into the jungle.” She looked at him. “You make it sound easy.”
“That is easy. The hard part's not getting shot.”
“You have such a gift for reassurance.”
He grinned. “One of my many talents.”
They'd been like this for the last three days. Easy banter layered over operational planning, professional competence mixed with something warmer. After they’d made love, something had shifted between them.
Not awkward, not rushed. Just … acknowledged.
Like they'd both decided to stop pretending they didn't feel the pull.
And now they were about to commit grand theft fuel together, which seemed perfectly on-brand for their relationship.
“Okay,” Willow said, rolling onto her back and staring up at the lightening sky. “Walk me through it one more time.”
“You fly the Beaver in low, use that ridge line for cover. Land on the old logging road two klicks west of the facility. I go in on foot, activate the jammer, neutralize the guards—”
She interrupted, “Non-lethally.”
He rolled his eyes. “Mostly non-lethally,” he amended. He wouldn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. “Then I take the truck, drive it to your position, we pump the fuel into the Beaver's tanks, and fly out before anyone knows we were here.”
“What about the truck driver?”
“Meh, depends on a number of things, probably unconscious but alive. Tied up somewhere, maybe.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “All right, he’ll be tied up comfortably.”
She tipped her head. “And if something goes wrong?”
“Then I blow something up, and we improvise.” Sitting up, he checked his weapons. Glock, suppressor, zip ties, the jammer, and a small, shaped charge. It never hurt to have an insurance policy … just in case. “Anything goes sideways, you extract immediately. Don't wait for me.”
“Like hell.” She sat up, too, close enough that their shoulders touched. “We're partners. Partners don't leave each other behind.”
“Willow—”
“Don't,” she cut him off, her voice firm. “We've had this argument already. I'm not leaving you. So, let's just focus on the plan working.”
He wanted to argue. Wanted to make her promise that if it went bad, she'd save herself. But he could see the stubborn set of her jaw, the determination in her eyes.
She wouldn’t leave him. No matter what he said.
And God help him, that mattered more than it should.
“All right,” he said. “Partners.”
“Damn right.” She checked her watch. “Let's move.”
The Beaver's engine roared to life, shattering the morning quiet. Levi sat in the co-pilot's seat, watching Willow run through her preflight checks with the kind of focused intensity that made everything else disappear.
“Fuel gauge is reading half,” she said. “If it’s working.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Then we glide and pray.” She advanced the throttle, and the Beaver started rolling across the meadow. “Same as always.”
The takeoff was smooth. Willow made it look effortless, as if the plane were an extension of her body. They climbed above the tree line, banking west, following the river valley that would take them to the target.
Below, the jungle stretched endless and green. Somewhere down there, Morales was hiding. Planning. Waiting.
Soon, they'd make him move.
“Con, you tracking?” Levi said quietly, touching his earpiece.
“Clear as day, Z. Satellite shows the tanker is docked at the refueling station. Guards are in position. You've got a clean approach vector if you use the ridge line.”
“Copy that.”
Willow glanced at him. “Guardian?”
“Yeah. They're feeding real-time intel.”
“You know, I’m a bit jealous. Must be nice, having actual support.” There was no bitterness in her voice, just tired resignation. “CIA's idea of support is 'good luck, try not to die, and we'll deny knowing you if you get caught.'”
“Guardian's not like that. Integrity. It’s a word that’s batted about, but they have it. In spades.”
She nodded as she looked out her side window. “And better communication equipment. And satellite coverage. And extraction protocols that don't involve 'figure it out yourself.'”
She wasn’t wrong, and he couldn't argue with that.
The ridge line appeared ahead, exactly where the maps showed it. Willow dropped altitude, using the terrain as cover, flying low enough that tree branches scraped the pontoons.
“There,” she said, pointing. “The logging road.”
It was barely visible through the vegetation. It was just a scar of mud and gravel cutting through the jungle. But it was straight, kind of flat, and long enough for a landing.
Willow brought them in with the kind of precision that made Levi's chest tight. The wheels touched down smoothly, and they rolled and bounced to a stop beneath the canopy, hidden from aerial observation.
“Ten minutes,” she said, killing the engine. “In and out.”
“In and out,” he agreed.
He checked his gear one last time, then leaned over and kissed her. It was quick, hard, and made a promise neither of them should make.
“For luck,” he said.
“Do you believe in luck?”
“I believe in you.” He grinned. “Same thing.”
Then he was out, moving through the jungle with practiced silence. The refueling area was close. He could hear the truck's engine idling and smell diesel fuel in the morning air.
Two minutes to get in position. Another minute to activate the jammer. Then chaos.
His kind of work.
The signal jammer activated with a soft beep that only Levi could hear.
He was crouched behind an equipment shed fifty yards from the refueling station, watching the guards through a gap in the fence. Two at the gate were smoking, relaxed, not expecting trouble. The other two were near the tanker truck, supervising the fuel transfer.
The truck driver leaned against his vehicle, checking his phone. Levi watched him frown, shake the phone, try again. No signal. The driver shrugged, pocketed it, and went back to smoking.
Perfect.
Levi moved.
He cleared the fence in three seconds. Up and over, landing softly in the grass on the other side. The guards at the gate never looked his way. Moving between equipment sheds, he used shadows and blind spots to close the distance.
The first guard went down with a suppressed shot to the leg.
It was non-lethal, but enough to drop him screaming.
The second guard spun, weapon coming up, and Levi put two rounds in his body armor.
The impact knocked him down, breathless, and Levi was on him, zip-tying his hands before he could recover.
“Stay down,” Levi hissed. “You move, next one's a headshot.”
The guard nodded, gasping.
The other two guards were now running, shouting, their weapons raised.
Levi threw a flash-bang, a Guardian-issued, non-lethal device, and the world went white and loud.
He moved through the chaos, dropping both guards with precise shots to extremities.
Legs, shoulders, nothing fatal. He wasn’t sure why it was so important to Willow, but he could do non-lethal. Hey, he was nothing if not adaptable.
The truck driver tried to run, but Levi clotheslined him, and the man went down hard.
Sixty seconds. Four guards neutralized, driver unconscious, facility secured.
“Willow, I've got the truck,” he said into his radio. They’d brought two from the safehouse. “Moving to your position now.”
“Copy that. I'll have the refueling equipment ready.”
He climbed into the tanker's cab, hot-wired the ignition, which was done purely by muscle memory from a dozen similar operations, and the engine roared to life. The fuel gauge showed three-quarters full. More than enough.
He put it in gear and drove.
The logging road was worse than it looked from the air. It was rutted, muddy, with large branches that scraped at the tanker's sides. But the truck was built for rough terrain, and he’d driven over worse.
The Beaver appeared ahead, and Willow was already outside, hauling out the portable pump they'd stolen from the maintenance depot. She'd positioned the plane perfectly, maximizing efficiency, minimizing time.
“How much?” she called as he climbed down.
“Fifteen hundred gallons, give or take.”
“That'll max out our tanks and give us reserve cans.” She was already connecting hoses, working with the kind of speed that came from doing this under fire too many times. “How long do we have?”
“Ten minutes before they get comms back. Maybe fifteen before backup arrives.”
“Then let's move.”
They worked in synchronized silence—him holding hoses steady, her monitoring flow rates, both watching the tree line for trouble that hadn't arrived yet.
The fuel flowed. Each gallon meant range, meant missions, meant staying operational instead of grounded.
“You know,” Willow said, not looking up from the pump, “we make a pretty good team.”