Al stood up. Bracing himself and holding tight to the metal framework that supported the plastic roof, he leaned out and looked around the end of the truck to see where they were. The wind tore at his curly hair and made him squint.

He pulled himself back inside and hunched down again. “Hang on tight!” he yelled.

Everybody pulled his knees up to his chest and grabbed his ankles. Ron did the same.

The truck hit something with an ear-splitting crash and a jar that rattled Ron’s teeth. Then they drove inside a huge building, the truck’s engine suddenly sounding hollow and even noisier than before.

They stopped with a lurch that slid everybody into a jumbled heap. Al jumped out of the truck before the last echo of the engine’s roar had died away.

“C’mon, c’mon, let’s go!” he yelled.

Ron jumped down to the floor of the warehouse and the other guys piled out behind him. They all had guns in their hands. Two guys had automatic rifles, the rest had pistols.

The eight armed men sprinted to the doors that the truck had just crashed through. Ron looked around and saw row after row of packing crates, stacked up as high as the ceiling, which must have been at least six stories up.

“Okay,” Al snapped. “Find whatcha need and let’s get it packed in th’ truck. Quick! We ain’t got all day.”

“I can’t go running through a strange warehouse and pick out everything we need in a few minutes,” Ron complained. “This is no way to—”

Al cut him short. “This’s the only way yer gonna get whatcha need. Now get busy and stop yappin’!”

With a shrug, Ron turned toward the stacks of equipment. Al and the truck driver and another guy, who must have been up in the cab with the driver, went with Ron.

At least the crates were clearly marked with stenciled lettering. And further back there were smaller pieces of equipment wrapped in clear plastic, so Ron could see what they were.

He spent nearly an hour pacing up and down the rows of equipment, picking out as much as he could find. The driver and his helper carried most of the stuff back to the truck. Al stayed with Ron. He had a gun tucked into his waistband. Is he protecting me or making sure I won’t try to run away? Ron wondered.

“Time’s getting’ short,” Al muttered.

“Okay. I think I’ve got most of what I need,” Ron said.

A shot echoed through the warehouse.

“They found us!” somebody shouted.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Al said.

He and Ron started sprinting back to the truck. The driver and his helper were already there, loading some of the equipment Ron had picked out.

But as they ran, Ron’s eye caught a glimpse of the lettering on one of the big crates: CHARLESTON TURBOGENERATOR MARK VIII.

Ron skidded to a halt. “Wow! Can we get that into the truck?”

Al had to scuttle back a dozen steps. “It’s big—”