13
By the time Holly and Quint had sprinted back through the heat, the big doors at the rear of the C-17 split horizontally and folded, one half swung up into the fuselage and the longer, lower half of the sloping rear underbelly swung down to become the cargo ramp. A group of men came down the ramp.
She grabbed Quint’s elbow as he went to move forward.
“What?”
Holly just shook her head and kept watching.
Six of them.
Moving like a trio of two-man rifle teams.
They didn’t move past the end of the ramp, instead stopping at the end of the slope, moving to either side, and facing outward.
Guards.
Rifles were slung over their backs, sidearms were holstered, and they had fighting knives strapped to their thighs. Beards, dark sunglasses, black bill hats, and the standard black t-shirt,
