We meet a grim-faced pilot outside the motel, a small prop plane waiting on a rudimentary strip. The arrangement feels eerily familiar. My stomach roils with déjà vu as we board, half expecting to be chased again.
This pilot speaks little, just nods at Zach. We jam ourselves into cramped seats while Marta loads gear. Elena grips my hand, tension etched in her furrowed brow.
The engine sputters to life. As the plane lurches forward, I catch a glimpse of dust trails far behind us—vehicles approaching? My pulse leaps in alarm. The pilot cranks full throttle, the plane shuddering into the air just as a convoy tears into view below.
I glimpse black SUVs, headlights glaring in the midday sun. Could be local cartel, could be Vasquez's men. Hard to say. My chest constricts with relief that we're airborne, but dread lingers. They're on our trail again.