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Just because they'd hit the highway and lost visual contact with their pursuers didn't mean Henry was about to ease off the gas.

Behind him, Mark was still gripping the wheel like his life depended on it—because it did—cursing under his breath while pushing his focus past 120%.

Saying "thirty minutes to the airport" didn't mean those thirty minutes would be relaxing.

That morning, it had taken them over three hours to reach the children's protection center from the airport—a journey originally scheduled for four hours. But now, they were making the return trip in just two. That alone said everything about the breakneck pace they were keeping. "Flying" wouldn't be an exaggeration.

Henry couldn't afford to let up, not even for a second. Brian had spotted dust clouds in the distance—proof that the enemy hadn't given up. And while the pursuers hadn't yet appeared on the horizon, they were out there.

Boarding the plane and taking off wasn't instantaneous. Henry had no way of estimating exactly how long that would take, so the only thing he could do was push the vehicle to its limit, shaving off every second possible.

He wasn't about to gamble on whether those machine guns mounted on the back of the enemy pickups were real or not. If they got close enough to fire at the plane during takeoff…

He didn't even want to imagine the outcome.

Even if he somehow survived, others wouldn't. And Henry didn't want to see that ending.

Finally, the two Range Rovers roared through the gates of the small airstrip.

But the moment they arrived, Brian's face darkened.

Their chartered aircraft—a small Italian-made jet—was still parked under the hangar. Nowhere near the runway.

Both vehicles pulled straight into the hangar. As soon as Brian stepped out and saw the pilot pacing anxiously, he stormed over, fury in his eyes.

"Why the hell aren't you on the runway prepping for takeoff?" he snapped. "We've got hostiles on our tail—they could show up any minute!"

The Italian pilot raised both hands defensively. "The control tower told me a plane is coming in for landing! They said the runway needs to be cleared. We only have one runway!"

"I can't just roll the aircraft out and block it while waiting for passengers that might not even show up. I had to follow tower protocol!"

The others were already unloading when they heard the explanation. All of them instinctively looked up at the sky, scanning for the so-called "incoming" plane.

The pilot continued, "You all know this airstrip doesn't have night landing equipment. It's getting close to dusk. So the arriving aircraft has priority."

"They have to land while there's still visibility. If they miss the window, it could be a disaster."

Brian bit his lip.

There were aviation rules just like traffic laws—and pilots were expected to follow them religiously. If something went wrong during landing because of a blocked runway, it wouldn't just be a violation. It'd be a major flight safety incident. International aviation regulators came down hard on pilots who broke protocol.

And no matter how urgent Brian's mission was, even he couldn't force a pilot to knowingly violate safety rules—especially not with another plane allegedly inbound.

But he wasn't about to stand still.

"We're all here. That's our advantage," Brian snapped, taking charge. "Mark, get the lady onboard. Bernie, Sam—guard the aircraft. Luca, ready for takeoff!"

He shoved a handgun into Henry's chest.

"Let's go," Brian said. "You're with me to the tower. We'll ask the tower staff ourselves about this 'incoming plane.' If there's still time, we're jumping the line and taking off first."

Henry tucked the pistol into his waistband—not bothering to draw it—and gave Audrey Hepburn a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, boss. Get on board. We're almost in the clear."

"Be careful," Audrey replied softly.

Wasting no more words, Henry took off after Brian. Together they jogged toward the squat, poorly secured airport building that served both as the admin office and control tower.

Brian had specifically brought Henry along because he spoke Somali. While the tower personnel were supposed to speak English, Brian wasn't willing to risk any communication screw-ups. With Henry there, things would go smoother—especially if they needed to apply pressure.

They raced up a few flights of stairs. Before they reached the control room, Henry caught snatches of conversation through the door—spoken in Somali.

He stopped short, grabbing Brian's arm.

"They're talking about what they're going to do with the bounty money," Henry said grimly. "I think we are the bounty."

Brian nodded and shifted his rifle into a ready position, barrel up at chest height.

Then he kicked the door open.

The crash of the door slamming back against the wall was followed immediately by a single warning shot into the ceiling.

The two black tower staff inside shrieked in panic, diving behind chairs that offered no real cover whatsoever.

Brian barked out in English, "What plane is landing? How far out? ETA?!"

Henry followed with the same questions in Somali.

But neither man answered. Both were shaking, clearly too scared to respond.

Henry scanned the control room quickly. There were no arrival tags or flight markers posted. No comms activity on the monitors. No tower log on the clipboard.

He turned to Brian. "There's no plane. They made it up."

His own enhanced vision had already done a sweep of the skies—nothing was approaching the airstrip. No contrails, no engines, no silhouettes.

Brian had already suspected as much. The lack of protest or confusion from the two men when confronted was telling. If there really had been a plane on approach, they would've said something. Even a stammered explanation.

Instead, they froze—caught mid-lie.

"They're full of shit," Brian growled.

He stepped forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into one man's face, knocking him out cold. The second man tried to crawl away—Brian shot him in the leg.

The man let out a blood-curdling scream.

Brian turned on his heel. "Let's go. Time to take off."

He'd already confirmed the two weren't armed. No need to kill them—just a little lesson to remember.

Henry followed without comment.

They ran full tilt out of the tower, down the stairs and across the tarmac.

As soon as the parked aircraft came into view, Brian waved both arms furiously and shouted,

"Get on the runway! Ready for takeoff! There is no plane landing!"

Whether they heard him clearly or just trusted Brian's instincts, it didn't matter. Sam and Bernie immediately rushed the pilot up the steps and onto the aircraft.

Thankfully, the engines had been kept idling. All they needed was everyone onboard and the hatch shut—and they could go.

But the delay caused by the tower's deception had worked.

In the distance, the roar of approaching engines could already be heard—and the clouds of dust kicked up by the pursuing convoy were now visible on the horizon.

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