Chapter 17
The V-DOT maintenance depot looked better and better, the closer they got.
A gift from the tactical gods—chain link fence, old security cameras that probably hadn't worked since Griff got his first driver’s license, and most importantly, rows of salt trucks and plows lined up for the next winter storm that wouldn't come for eight months.
"There," Griff pointed through the darkness. The compound sat below the highway, accessible via a service road. Perfect.
Behind them, voices coordinated search patterns. Professional. Methodical. Closing in.
His shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat, blood seeping through his fingers, but he was already cataloging resources. "Stay close."
The fence was standard chain link, ten feet high, topped with three strands of barbed wire that had seen better decades. Griff found what he was looking for—a drainage runoff had eroded the ground beneath one section, leaving a gap just big enough.
"Under," he commanded, lifting the curling edge.
Sarah slid through on her belly, mud coating her front. He followed, his shoulder screaming as he scraped beneath the metal. Behind them, flashlights swept the area.
"The garage," Sarah suggested.
"Too obvious. They'll clear buildings first. We need chaos."
He located the fuel depot—three above-ground tanks on the far side. Then the electrical box, junction controls for the automated systems. The older the facility, the simpler the tech. Simple meant exploitable.
"What are you doing?" Sarah asked as he jimmied the lock on the electrical box with his knife.
"Making noise and heat." Inside was exactly what he'd hoped. Rows of switches labeled with faded text. Exterior lights. Bay doors. Pump controls. Truck wash. He flipped them all.
The depot erupted into brightness—floodlights blazing, bay doors grinding open, the automated truck wash roaring to life with nobody to wash. Somewhere an alarm started blaring—probably a pressure sensor wondering why the wash was running dry.
"That'll show them where we are."
"That's the point. Thermal imaging needs contrast. Flood the area with heat sources..." He was already moving to the first salt truck, yanking open the unlocked door—nobody stole municipal vehicles. The keys were in the ignition. Of course they were.
He started it, diesel engine roaring to life. Then the next truck. And the next.
"Help me," he ordered. "Start everything with keys. Create heat signatures everywhere."
Sarah understood immediately, running to a pickup, starting it, moving to the next. Within ninety seconds, they had twelve vehicles running, engines warming.
"Thermal's here." The voice was closer now. "No way. The whole place is lit up. Multiple heat sources."
"It's a distraction. Sweep systematically."
Four minutes left.
His distractions would only help so long. They’d quickly surround the yard, then sweep inward, boxing them into a corner.
“Follow me.” He waved her after him as he sprinted along in the shadows, heading for the massive metal shed at the east corner.
The man door in the side resisted his tugs. “Stand back,” he ordered her before launching himself at the warped corrugated door.
The jamb splintered and he flew inside, twisting at the last minute to take the fall on his good shoulder. Still, the landing made his head spin. He shook it off, willing more adrenaline into his system. Time for weakness later.
“Score,” he muttered as he climbed to his feet. Salt storage. Three massive piles of road salt reaching to the top of the two-story ceiling. He grabbed a bucket, filled it with salt, then located a maintenance hose.
"Chemistry lesson," he said, spraying water over the salt pile. "Calcium chloride and water create an exothermic reaction."
The pile began steaming immediately, heat rising in visible waves. He grabbed more buckets, creating three more reaction points around the depot. But it would only buy them so much time. Pretty soon, the goons would realize they could ignore any static heat signatures.
Three more minutes.
"The truck wash." He pulled Sarah toward the automated system still running at full power. Steam poured from the empty bay, the hot water system creating a fog bank. "Through here."
Shielding their faces, they ran through the truck wash, high-pressure water jets soaking them instantly. The hot water was almost scalding, steam so thick he couldn't see two feet ahead. But thermal couldn't penetrate water and steam effectively—they'd be ghosts for a few more crucial seconds.
Out the other side, soaked and steaming in the cold air. The fence had been cut—the contractors were inside the depot now, moving between the running vehicles, weapons raised.
Two minutes.
"The salt spreader," Griff whispered, pointing to the largest truck—a massive orange beast with a covered hopper full of salt mixture. "Inside."
He boosted Sarah into the hopper, then hauled himself up, his shoulder almost giving out. They dropped into three feet of salt and sand mixture, the crystals getting everywhere—clothes, hair, wounds. He bit down on a hiss of pain.
"This won't hide us—"
"Salt disperses heat signatures," he said, pulling her down until they were buried to their chests. "The tons of minerals around us will diffuse our thermal images."
Through the hopper opening, he could see flashlights sweeping between vehicles. Thermal imaging operators calling out coordinates. Getting closer.
One minute.
A contractor climbed onto their truck's running board, flashlight sweeping the cab. If he looked in the hopper—
Classical music exploded across the depot. Vivaldi's "Winter" at concert volume, echoing off the salt domes.
"What the—" A pursuer’s voice came from right beside their truck, his boots scraping on the running board.
The music grew louder, accompanied by a diesel engine roaring at full throttle. A massive crash shook the entire depot—metal shrieking, chain link singing as it tore.
"Contact. Vehicle inbound."
Boots hit the ground, running away from their position. Multiple voices shouting, redirecting to the new threat.
Griff raised his head carefully from the salt, high enough to see through the hopper opening.
A yellow food truck had plowed straight through the fence line, taking out a section twenty feet wide.
It spun a perfect J-turn, bed sliding around, back doors already open.
A silver-haired woman sat behind the wheel, shotgun pointing outward, looking like someone's grandmother had decided to enact Taken.
"That's her," Sarah whispered from beside him, salt crystals in her hair. "That's Doc."
Muzzle flashes lit up the night. Doc's shotgun boomed twice—suppressing fire, not aimed to kill. Professional.
"Now," Griff ordered, pulling Sarah up with him.
They erupted from the salt, crystals cascading everywhere. Griff half-fell from the bin, his shoulder finally giving out. Sarah caught him, surprisingly strong for someone her size.
The blasts were echoed on two sides by automatic weapons fire. Also carefully placed. The woman had brought a small army.
He wanted to kiss her.
Instead, he shoved Sarah toward the truck.