THE GHOST ON THE RUNWAY

"Down!" David roared, lunging backward and tackling Clara and Toby to the ground just as a burst of suppressed automatic fire tore through the vending machine above their heads. Cans of soda exploded in a shower of pressurized syrup, aluminum shards raining down around them like shrapnel.

Clara covered Toby’s head with both arms, curling her body into a shield. Concrete dust showered down from the pillar as high-caliber rounds systematically shredded the drywall behind them.

Marcus didn't duck. At the sound of the rifle fire, the injured guard sprinted toward the mezzanine stairs, drawing a concealed sidearm from his ankle holster. "Corbin! You son of a bitch!" he screamed, firing three rapid shots up into the shadows of the executive lounge.

A single shot answered from above. Marcus collapsed instantly, his body crashing hard into the metal conveyor belt of the baggage claim. He didn't move again.

"The detonator, David! What is it wired to?" Clara yelled over the whine of ricocheting bullets.

"The fuel reserves beneath Runway 4!" David shouted, crawling forward on his stomach, returning fire with single, controlled shots toward the mezzanine railing. "Corbin is going to level the terminal and blame it on an accidental explosion caused by our SUV breach. It covers the missing ledger and wipes out everyone who saw him here!"

"How much time?"

"Two minutes!" David snapped. He reached into his vest, pulled out a flash grenade, and ripped the pin with his teeth. "When this goes, run for the lower level baggage ramp. Don't look back. Don't stop for me!"

"David, no!"

David leaned out from behind the pillar and hurled the cylinder with full force toward the upper balcony. "Eyes shut!"

A blinding white fury tore through the terminal, accompanied by a concussive bang that felt like a sledgehammer hitting Clara’s chest. The concourse erupted in deafening ringing. Even with her eyes clamped tight, the flare scorched Clara’s retinas with an afterimage of pure purple.

David was on his feet instantly. He grabbed Clara’s arm, hauling her upward, while she dragged Toby along the floor. They broke into a sprint toward the heavy rubber flaps of the luggage carousel, diving through the rubber slats just as the second-floor mezzanine began to collapse under heavy fire.

They tumbled down the metal roller slide into the dim concrete subterranean sorting room below. The air was colder here, smelling of grease and exhaust.

"Mom," Toby gasped, coughing on the dust that drifted through the chute. "Look."

Clara followed her son's pointing finger. Across the subterranean room, strapped to the primary fuel line that fed the private hangar system, was a military-grade demolition pack. The LED screen on the casing was synchronized to the second with the beacon in Clara’s duffel bag.