THE GHOST ON THE RUNWAY

Miller didn't have his pistol drawn. He was holding a handheld radio transmitter in one gloved hand, watching the numbers drop with an unnerving, vacant calm. When Clara, David, and Toby slid out of the conveyor chute, his expression didn't change; it was the look of a mechanic waiting for a machine to finish its cycle.

"You're late, David," Miller said, his voice flat and echoing in the hollow concrete room. "Corbin bet you wouldn't make it past the concourse. I told him you were too stubborn to die on the carpet."

David stepped forward, his carbine leveled squarely at Miller’s sternum. "Step away from the valve, Miller. If that fuel line ruptures, the backblast will incinerate this entire basement before the ceiling even collapses."

"I know," Miller said quietly. He raised his left hand, showing the small dead-man switch wired between his fingers. "That was always the parameter. You spent twelve years building an invisible empire for the department, Vance. Did you really think they’d let you retire to a four-bedroom colonial with a front lawn and a pension?"

"David," Clara whispered, stepping back, pulling Toby behind a heavy steel luggage cart. "He wants to die here."

"Not want to, Mrs. Vance," Miller replied, turning his cold gaze toward her. "Expected to. When you take the oath, you don't get an exit interview. You just get cleared from the roster."

00:32... 00:31... 00:30.

David didn't fire. Clara saw his eyes darting between Miller’s hand and the thick steel pipe behind him. If a stray bullet punctured the pressurized jet fuel line, the resulting aerosol spray would ignite instantly on the exposed generator coils humming ten feet away.

"You have the wrong ledger, Miller," David said, taking a slow step to the side, forcing Miller to adjust his stance. "The drive in my pocket isn't the extraction list. It’s the offshore routing accounts. Corbin’s personal accounts. He set up the Monterey strip to liquidate his own unit. He isn't erasing the evidence—he's erasing his creditors."

For the first time, Miller’s composure cracked. A flicker of doubt passed across his pale eyes. "Corbin is senior staff. He wouldn't—"

"Check your pocket, Miller," David said smoothly. "The manifest for that jet. Were you on the passenger list? Or were you designated as ground cleanup?"

The hesitation was less than a second, but it was all the opening David needed.

David lunged forward, closing the distance before Miller could release the trigger switch. But Miller didn't drop the switch—he lunged forward with a combat knife, driving the blade upward toward David's throat. David caught the wrist, their bodies colliding with brutal force against the metal casing of the sorting machine.

The timer flashed red: 00:10... 00:09... 00:08.

Clara didn't think. She raised the heavy pistol David had given her, leveled both hands, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun kicked with a deafening roar. The bullet tore through Miller’s shoulder, spinning him off balance. David twisted the man’s wrist, breaking the grip on the detonator, and slammed Miller’s head against the steel pillar. Miller slumped to the concrete floor, unconscious.

David didn't waste a second. He grabbed the wiring harness from the demolition charge, wrapped his fingers around the main ignition bridge, and ripped it out with a savage jerk.

The digital display froze at 00:02.