By nightfall, we say a quiet goodbye to the old woman at the diner, thanking her for the camper's refuge. We don't mention our real predicament, just slip her some cash. She watches us go with cautious sympathy.
We follow the phone's coordinates, headlights cutting through the darkness of empty back roads. Every twist and turn sets my nerves aflame, expecting an ambush around each bend. Elena grips the wheel, jaw set.
At last, we reach a desolate airstrip—a cracked runway flanked by weeds. A single plane sits on the tarmac, its engine humming softly. My mouth goes dry. Is this the smuggler's ride or Vasquez's trap?
We park. Tense silence. A figure steps down from the plane, waving us closer. Moonlight glints off a face half-hidden by a ballcap. Elena and I exchange a final, desperate look. We're all in, no turning back.
I pop the car door, adrenaline surging. If this is a trap, it ends here. If it's our shot at freedom, we have to seize it. Everything hinges on the next five minutes. One last WTF roll of the dice—life or ruin.