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After securing their employer and the vehicle, Bryan quickly strapped on his own vest and said to Henry, "Vest? Gun?"

"Just give me a pistol. I don't have a free hand right now." Henry's foot was nearly welded to the accelerator, every nerve on edge.

Driving on rough, unpaved ground was unpredictable. One wrong guess about the terrain, and a wheel could sink into a mud pit. Best-case scenario: they'd get stuck spinning tires. Worst-case: the SUV would flip.

Bryan tossed a Colt M1911 onto the passenger seat and grabbed a rifle for himself. Half his body hung out the window as he fired controlled bursts to the rear. At the same time, his eyes swept the horizon, gauging their surroundings.

Sliding back inside, Bryan said, "There's a convoy—two, maybe three kilometers out. Hard to judge their size. Grassland doesn't kick up as much dust as the desert. Henry, do you know the way back?"

"You mean to the airport? Can you reach them? Better warn them—what if some of these guys split off and go after our plane crew?" Henry kept his eyes forward, knuckles tight on the wheel.

For now, only one vehicle was on their tail, blocked by Mark's SUV. Bryan returned occasional, deliberate shots—not to kill, just enough to remind their pursuers they weren't defenseless, and to conserve ammunition.

He dug out a satellite phone and dialed the pilot waiting at the airstrip.

A few tense seconds later, the line clicked. Bryan spoke fast: "Luca, status?"

"All clear. Why?"

"We just walked into an ambush. We're trying to shake them. Start prepping for immediate takeoff—but do it quietly. I don't know if they have allies who might head your way."

He rattled off more instructions: "Top off the fuel. Run full preflight checks. Keep the engines warm. When we arrive, we launch. No delays."

Then he covered the handset and called forward, "Henry, how long to the airstrip if we keep this pace?"

"Two hours."

That was faster than their trip out, but only if Henry kept the pedal down, never lost direction, and didn't slow for anything—not even the bone-rattling bumps that made the SUV feel like it might take flight.

Bryan relayed: "Two hours, Luca. Be ready. And arm yourselves. If anyone approaches, don't wait—defend the plane."

Once the call ended, he told Audrey and Henry, "The airport's clear for now. Once we get there, we're out."

Audrey suddenly asked, "Henry—your stomach earlier?"

"That was just an act, boss. Don't worry about me."

"Well… you fooled me," Audrey murmured. Strangely calm for someone being hunted by armed men.

Bryan glanced at her. Unshakable, he thought. Maybe it was her age, or maybe it was the kind of strength born only from living through war.

Henry was thinking the same thing. A teenager would be screaming by now, begging for their mother.

People forgot that Audrey Hepburn had spent her childhood in Nazi-occupied Holland. She'd carried messages for the resistance, and her family had sheltered Allied soldiers.

She might not have fought with a gun, but she wasn't some delicate porcelain doll who had never seen danger.

Even so, neither Henry nor Bryan had any intention of handing her a weapon. Facing gunfire without panic was one thing; shooting another human being was another.

Besides, if the "employer" had to start firing, what was the point of hiring an entire protection team?

Henry's full focus returned to the road—until his senses flared.

"Hold on!" he shouted.

He jerked the wheel hard. The SUV swerved violently, narrowly avoiding a jeep charging in from the side.

With one hand still gripping the steering wheel, Henry snatched up the pistol from the seat, aimed through the open window, and fired two quick shots before tossing it back down.

Unlike normal "pray and spray" firefights—where hitting anything was mostly luck—Henry's Kryptonian-enhanced senses and reflexes made each bullet surgical. Even with both vehicles bouncing at high speed, his aim was perfect.

The first shot blew out the jeep's front tire.

The second went straight through its windshield, killing the driver instantly.

The jeep veered out of control, slammed into a hidden rut, and flipped into the air.

Unbelted men screamed as they were thrown like rag dolls into the dust.

"Hell of a shot, kid!" Bryan shouted.

Henry didn't even look back. "More cars coming."

Bryan pushed forward into the space between the seats, firing bursts toward the flanking vehicles. Sure enough, a second convoy had cut across the plains, trying to intercept.

These weren't amateurs. The lead truck was positioning perfectly to block their route to the airport. If they wanted to make it out, they'd either have to punch through or die trying.

Henry didn't hesitate. At the last possible moment, he threaded the SUV through a gap, sideswiping the enemy's front bumper. His gun barked twice—one shot disabling their radiator, the other shattering their driver's skull.

The blocking truck spun out. Their path opened again.

But their problems weren't over. The two convoys merged behind them, turning the pursuit into a full-on hunt.

And some of those vehicles were the worst kind: open-bed pickups with mounted machine guns.

If any of the gunners managed to stand up and stabilize their aim, at least one of the fleeing SUVs would be shredded.

For now, the bone-breaking speed worked in their favor. The ride was too rough for anyone to stand, let alone aim.

One overconfident fighter tried anyway. He clambered onto the back of a "technical," racked the heavy machine gun—and the next bounce pitched him sideways.

The weapon's muzzle dipped. He opened fire by accident—straight into his own cab. The driver's head burst in a red spray.

The unlucky gunner was launched clear, and the abandoned weapon clattered into the dust. His pickup slammed back onto its wheels, but the man in the passenger seat grabbed the wheel too late.

The truck spun, skidded, then flipped violently, rolling end over end.

By then, Henry's two SUVs were already miles ahead.

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