The private airstrip was eerily quiet, save for the crunch of gravel under boots and the low hum of cooling engines. Crickets chirped in the nearby woods like they hadn't gotten the memo about the covert landing.
Then came the headlights.
Two beams cut through the dark like twin blades, followed by the low rumble of engines with something growly and predatory underneath. A cloud of dust kicked up as a matte black SUV and a deep green muscle car came into view, pulling to a stop just short of the tarmac.
Rosco stepped out of the SUV with a lazy grin, his trucker hat tilted back and aviators still on despite the hour. He looked like he'd just strolled out of a moonshine heist and into a GQ spread for men who keep bolt cutters in the glove box.
"Well I'll be damned," he drawled, arms out
