Page 4 of Final Sins
He didn’t really know Gravy’s father, had only met him once during the struggle to get Gravy into rehab, but if the general thought well enough of him to tell Gravy to count on him, he was all in.
“Alright, Gravy. Sit tight. I’m on my way.”
As he ended the call, Jason caught sight of Bridger and Tai emerging from the house, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. He sighed, knowing the next conversation wasn’t going to be any easier than the last.
Time to face the music and explain why he was about to dash off on another solo mission. At least this time he had a valid excuse.
“Everything okay?” Bridger asked, his eyes narrowing as he took in Jason’s tense posture.
Jason ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to go. I’m taking the Pilatus.” Depending on where Gravy needed to go, his beloved P51 wouldn’t have the range, plus the sleek new turbo prop was way speedier.
“Alone?” Tai’s deep voice held a note of disapproval.
“It’s just a quick pickup and delivery. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Bridger crossed his arms, his jaw set in a stubborn line. “Jane needs you here. So do I. So does the rest of the team.”
“We’re just getting used to having you back,” Tai added, his usually stoic expression softening. He gestured at Jason’s wrinkled tee. “Your fashion choices take a while to sink in. Know what I mean?”
Jason’s shoulders sagged. They were right, of course. After years of running solo, being part of a family again was an adjustment. For all of them.
But some habits die hard.
“I know. And I promise, I’m not disappearing again. This is just a small favor for an old friend. How hard could it be to ferry one clumsy oaf to safety?”
Tai nodded. “Copy that. I mean, come on. The guy’s call sign is a condiment.”
Bridger snorted, clearly unconvinced. “With your luck? I’d say the odds are pretty high for an international incident.”
Jason grinned, already heading for the house. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got you guys to bail me out. Now, let me grab some of that lasagna before I go. Can’t save the day on an empty stomach.”
As he jogged up the steps, Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that this “small favor” was about to become anything but simple. Still, compared to taking on Seven-Five, how bad could it be? At least this time, he had a team to come back to. A family.
He paused at the door, the familiar tightness creeping up his neck. In his world, “simple” was just another word for “buckle up, it’s going to be a wild ride.”
3
Two hours later,with his stomach full of the best lasagna east of the Sierra, Jason eased the sleek turbo prop to a stop on the cracked tarmac of the abandoned airfield outside Boise. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. He powered down the engine, letting the propeller spin down. Muscles tense with anticipation, he scanned the area. The deserted airfield stretched before him—a ghostly remnant of better days.
His heart quickened at the sight of Robbie “Gravy” Munsinger’s form emerging from behind a rusted fuel truck, moving with all the grace of a newborn calf. The guy was built like a tank—pure muscle and raw power. At medium height, he wasn’t the tallest operator Jason had worked with, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in sheer strength. His fresh face and that ridiculous stand-up hair belied the deadly skillset Jason knew he possessed. Not the fastest mover, but Gravy could hold his own in any firefight.
Gravy’s familiar, goofy grin was visible even from this distance, his duffle bag bouncing against his leg as he trotted toward the plane.
Jason climbed out of the cockpit and headed for the door, unlatching it.
The sharp crack of gunfire split the air. Gravy’s eyes widened in comical surprise before he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
No way. No. Way.
Jason’s hand flew to his holster. He leapt from the plane, drawing his Glock. More shots rang out, bullets pinging off the Pilatus’s fuselage. His gaze snapped to the row of hangars, catching a glimpse of muzzle flashes in the fading light.
His mind raced, cataloging threats and escape routes. The plane wouldn’t protect them for long—especially if the fuel ignited.
“Gravy! Nine o’clock! The hangar!” he bellowed, returning fire. “Move your rear!”
Jason zigzagged across the tarmac, pulse thundering in his ears. Another volley of shots kicked up rocks at his feet. He dove; the rough concrete scraped his arms. He rolled and came up firing.
A pained yelp sounded from the far hangar. One down. At least two more shooters remained, based on the gunfire pattern.