If they had quality aerial recon they would have seen Myers escape. His distraction should have been more than sufficient for any normal Hunters. The only person who would care more about neutralizing Myers than capturing Franks would be Stricken. That meant the incoming Blackhawks were STFU, and now one of them was going after Strayhorn’s car. Myers was still in danger.

Franks’ mission parameters had just changed.

There was another engine noise barely audible over the rain, this time from the direction of the ocean. It was a powerful boat engine. The Germans had come from that direction, so it had to be one of their rides. It would also be the fastest way out of here. Franks ran toward the ocean.

Some of the Paranormal Tactical men spotted him and opened fire. They were fifty yards away, and didn’t have a clean shot through the various pieces of cover, but they tried to make up for that with volume. As much as he would have enjoyed sticking around to kill them all, he simply didn’t have the time. Franks spotted a drainage ditch, now mostly filled with runoff. It would take him to the sea. Franks jumped in. He hurried along, partly crawling, partly swimming, and partly being bounced about by water pressure. The ditch fed into a wide concrete pipe, so Franks let himself be carried inside.

The drainage pipe had a downward angle. Mold and slime made the sides so slick that Franks slid along quickly. He did not like not being in full control. Franks had never understood what humans found so entertaining about water slides.

Twenty feet later he crashed into a collected mass of garbage, old tree branches, and dead vegetation. There was a metal gate blocking the end of the pipe. Damn. Behind him, the PT Hunters were approaching. He was a sitting duck inside these narrow confines. Franks pushed through the refuse and grabbed the iron bars. The metal had been soft before it had become rusty, but it was still rather thick. As the mud crashed over him, Franks took hold of one bar, braced his boots on the slippery muck of the bottom of the pipe and pulled. It creaked and deformed, but it didn’t break.

Flashlight beams filled the pipe. Franks quickly drew his Glock, aimed down the pipe, and fired at the lights. There was a yelp of surprise, and one of the lights was dropped into the water. One of the other Hunters had more fortitude than that, and began firing down the pipe. Bullets splashed through the muck. Franks felt the burn of an impact, but he ignored it, aimed at the muzzle flash, and pulled the trigger. The Hunter stopped shooting when the 10mm bullet hit his gun and tore it from his grasp.

“Mindy! That son of a bitch shot Mindy!”