They hiked for another hour, reaching the tree line where the snow thinned to slush and mud. A small, private airstrip sat in the valley, lights twinkling in the pre-dawn gloom.
A sleek, black VTOL jet sat on the runway. Not a Warner craft. Not an Iron Legion craft. A Corporate Oversight craft.
Johnson stood by the ramp, flanked by four heavily armed operatives in grey suits. He looked impeccable, despite the hour, sipping a coffee from a thermos.
Rick and Sharon emerged from the trees. They were limping, battered, and freezing. Rick was carrying the black laptop case—the real one—which contained the Warner Ledger and the Precursor Core.
"You made it," Johnson called out, a warm smile spreading across his face. "I saw the fireworks from the satellite. Impressive. Truly. You toppled a regime."
"We need a ride," Rick said, stopping ten feet away. He didn't step onto the ramp. "And a doctor. And a very large drink."
"Of course," Johnson said. "Get on board. The medic is prepping."
