The night in Harland was thick with silence, broken only by the steady hum of engines slicing through the damp air. The city's neon lights bled into the darkness like liquid fire, vivid streaks reflected on the glossy asphalt as two black jeeps tore down the desolate road.
Their headlights cut through the mist, glinting off puddles that shimmered like broken glass.
At this late hour, few were still on the streets, let alone near the restricted zone of Harland International Airfield. Yet the jeeps didn't slow. They sped past the warning gates, the guards conveniently absent, the cameras already blinded by well-paid interference.
When they reached the runway, a sleek private jet waited under the glow of floodlights, its turbine already spinning with a low, hungry whir. The smell of aviation fuel mingled with the chill of midnight air.
The first jeep braked sharply, tires screeching against the tarmac.
