Below me, Marcus was running toward the hangar control panel. He slammed his fist onto the massive red release button.
Above me, the heavy steel roof of the hangar began to slowly slide open, revealing a narrow strip of dark evening sky.
Suddenly, the side door of the hangar was kicked open.
Major Evans and Captain Miller burst into the room, their service weapons drawn. The pulsing red security lights flashed across their faces as they scanned the massive space. Miller spotted me in the cockpit.
“Hayes! Step away from the aircraft! Now!” Miller screamed over the rising whine of the jet turbines.
He raised his weapon, aiming it directly at the cockpit.
I didn't hesitate. I slammed the canopy release button. The heavy glass dome slammed shut, locking with a pressurized hiss, sealing me inside and muffling their shouts.
I pushed the throttle forward.
The twin engines roared to life, a deafening explosion of sound and heat that shook the entire building. Evans and Miller were forced to dive behind a cluster of toolboxes as the jet wash blasted across the hangar floor, sending loose equipment flying into the walls.
I released the parking brake.
The jet surged forward, rolling out of the hangar and onto the dark, unlit runway. I had no tower support, no runway lights, and no clearance. All I had was the faint glow of the horizon and the instruments in front of me.
I lined up the nose of the jet with the center of the dark tarmac, held my breath, and pushed the throttle to maximum afterburner.
The acceleration slammed me back into the seat. The runway vanished beneath me in a blur of speed. The nose lifted, the wheels left the ground, and I tore upward into the night sky, leaving the facility, and Vance’s men, far behind.
I was airborne. I had crossed the line.
There was no turning back now.
CHAPTER 3
The Pacific Ocean was a massive, terrifying void of pure blackness beneath me.
I leveled the F/A-18 at thirty thousand feet, flying completely dark. No navigation lights, no transponder signal, no active radar pings. With the experimental stealth coating absorbing any incoming signals, I was nothing more than a ghost drifting through the stratosphere.
The cockpit was silent except for the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of my oxygen mask and the low hum of the avionics. I kept my hands light on the flight stick, checking the digital coordinates on the navigation screen.
Lat: 33.9249° N, Long: 119.9851° W.
I was exactly twenty miles away from the drop zone.
My plan was dangerous, but simple. Vance was supposed to be making a transfer tonight. That meant there had to be a heavy cargo plane—a C-130 or something similar—waiting at the coordinates to receive the stolen Aegis modules. I would use the stealth capabilities of my jet to slip in close, activate my high-powered surveillance array, photograph the transfer, and record their radio frequencies.
Once I had the evidence, I would trigger my experimental jammer, blinding their systems long enough for me to escape back to San Diego and deliver the data directly to the FBI.
I checked the time. 2255 Hours. Five minutes until the transfer.
I reached forward and flipped the switch for the passive thermal sensors, scanning the darkness ahead for the massive heat signature of a cargo plane.
The screen flickered, processing the data from the cold night air.
Nothing.
The airspace was completely empty. No cargo planes. No civilian airliners. No ships on the water below.
I frowned, adjusting the gain on the sensor array. “Come on,” I muttered into my mask. “Where are you?”
I crossed the twenty-mile mark. Ten miles. Five miles.