Last Chance to Run
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EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
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dogs bayed in the distance, Bobbing lights flash near the woods at the far side of the runway. Didn't take a detective to figure out they were hunting something or someone. Stowaway was sadly mistaken. If she thought he'd help a fugitive, Zane paused. A fugitive on the run from the law would be all over hacks. Police scanner. But the only alert sent out in the last 30 minutes have been the parking lot bar brawl. Concern tapped along his spine. He stuck his head inside the cargo door of the Titan and scanned the secured load. The tie down straps were cinched tight, as they should be. Hundreds of tiny toenails scratched frantically against the A rated crates. A faint, putrid smell accompanied the chattering racket in the shadows. At the rear, he spotted a bruised leg. Blood trickled from deep scratches. His vision adjusted two enormous terrified whiskey. Dark eyes came into focus between a break in the crates. Who was she? And why were they after her? And if the police weren't the ones chasing her who had turned dogs loose to track her amplified barks and house echoed louder across the airfield. The bleeding leg disappeared in the two eyes ducked away. A memory crashed into him of his younger sister, battered and bleeding in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one had lifted a finger to help her. Three years of buried guilt roared to the surface. He'd cursed with spineless men who turned deaf ears to his sister's screams. He cursed himself worse for not being there to save her. Zane climbed inside, slammed the cargo door behind him, then tossed the thermos into a bag on the floor. He moved forward into the left seat, cranked the engines, jerked on his headset. As he pulled out to taxi, He passed to Black Land Rovers, screaming into the airport, sliding to a stop on the taxiway to his left, outjumped five men in dark suits with bodies the size of refrigerators. Static crackled in his ear. He keyed the radio to activate the automatic runway lights, then spoke into his headset microphone. November 09 or nine or five take two Trackers with dogs appeared in his headlights. Further down the runway, the ensemble race toward him. Both men struggled to keep up with hounds charging against their leashes, amped up on the scent of the hunt. Zane gunned the engine taxi straight ahead, hacks excited, voice burst inside his head, said Shane, Come on back. Got some men here. Want to see you? What if the brutes were with law enforcement? You have to hand her over. No woman was worth getting arrested and having people digging around into his background. 100 yards ahead, men dove away from the churning props, dragging the bloodhounds with, um, you clicked on his mike by the fence. No private security, but they really talk. There's big money. Big money at a suspicious ring to it. Zane continued to flip levers. What type of security He swung around the far end of the taxiway, barely slowing. Squeak sounded in the rear, but he couldn't decide if it had four legs or two. Two sets of high beams shot around the opposite end of the runway, 3500 feet away to face him. What was the chance? Those headlights belonged to the two sport utilities full of muscle. Pretty ******* good. He sees the throttles forward. What kind of trouble was this woman in? To keep an eye on his cargo he'd installed a rear view mirror. He shot a quick look at the cargo hold. A pair of wide eyes stared back, more panicked than before. He understood that look. She was running for her life. After a long silence, Hack finally answered his question. Private security, Right? Big Jola vetting here stood up across things neck. I could always joked that Big Joe had D E a T H tattooed across his knuckles. No way would Zane turned that haunted, frightened woman over to a bunch of hired guns. He barked one last message into the radio. Breaking up Got I of our clearance from center. Go on! The aircraft picked up speed. The four headlights racing toward him grew larger. Zane gripped the controls tighter. His pilot's manual didn't cover playing chicken and a loaded tighten on a rainy night. But his military experience made this an easy call. Besides, he'd never been one to play by the rules. Buffeted by the wind, the plane rocked and careened closer to the Land Rovers, the distance between them shortening with every second, he mentally calculated the added weight of the Stoli in the back. Ive never get this aircraft up before reaching the vehicles. If they held their ground, you'd never be able to stop in time, either