The Pennsylvania Turnpike stretches out ahead, a dark ribbon of asphalt lit by the faint glow of the convoy's headlights. It's quiet, but not the peaceful kind of quiet--more like the silence right before a storm. My nerves buzz, not just from the constant hum of electromagnetic energy under my skin, but from the tension coiling tighter with each passing mile.

Thirty-five minutes out, everything still seems fine. The convoy moves in perfect rhythm, each vehicle keeping its distance but staying close enough to cover the others. The outposts and watchers along the route have been radioing in, nothing but routine updates.

Forty minutes.

I glance at Cryptid, who's leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, his face calm but watchful. Basilisk sits next to him, her hand resting lightly on the truck's inner wall, her focus elsewhere. She's extending her field outward, keeping us invisible to anyone trying to track us psychically.

Forty-three.

BANG!

The noise doesn't build. There's no warning. One second it's quiet, and the next, the world turns inside out.

The first explosion shakes the truck, followed by a metallic screech as the convoy vehicle ahead of us swerves, tires fighting for grip on the now-shattered asphalt. I throw myself against the wall, bracing against the lurching truck as Cryptid growls, "What the hell was that?"

"Trouble," I mutter, forcing the back hatch open.

The scene outside is chaos. Rubble and debris fly as chunks of the road erupt into the air, hurled by bursts of invisible force. I spot one of the SUVs spiraling off the shoulder, its lights flickering. A second later, another explosion punches into the asphalt, ripping apart the path ahead. It's not random. Someone is targeting the convoy vehicles, forcing them to scatter like panicked animals.

And then I see them: a black woman in a bright pink business suit, small and round, but with a confident posture that makes her look twice her size. Her hands grip the wheel of one of the hijacked convoy trucks, its reinforced body now a weapon in her control.

Behind her, a man on a motorcycle weaves in and out of the chaos. His finger--literally his finger--aims at the back tires of another convoy vehicle. When he "fires,", his arm kicking back like it's feeling real recoil, the vehicle shudders, skidding wildly as the tire bursts into shredded rubber. The man's face is wrapped up in a helmet, but even I can hear his screamed "BANG!" over the whipping wind.

The truck jerks again as Basilisk's voice cuts through the chaos, her tone sharp and steady. "They've hijacked one of ours."

"No kidding," Cryptid snaps, pulling himself upright and reaching for his tactical gear, starting to unpack and assemble the biggest gun I've ever seen in my life.

Before I can reply, the side of the hijacked truck peels away, a near-perfect rectangle of reinforced metal tearing loose like it's made of cardboard. I don't have time to think about how they managed it -- who brings a welding torch to a convoy hijacking? -- my instincts take over, and I'm already in the air, the truck's back hatch swinging shut behind me.

The wind hits me like a wall as I accelerate, the charge in my body syncing with the faint magnetic pulse of the Earth below. My vision narrows, locking onto the chaos unfolding ahead.

BOOM.

A sound like thunder roars from the road as I breach the sound barrier, and I see it--a towering figure emerging from the highway, from a strategically stopped car, ripping it open from the inside. Even in the dim light, there's no mistaking the hulking frame, the massive tail swishing with enough force to shatter guardrails.

Ugh. Of course.

The last time I saw Mr. Tyrannosaur, he was tearing through the zoo, taking a beating from yours truly before vanishing into the sunset in a way I still don't understand. One minute he was there, and the next, he was gone, not even a footstep to be heard. And I have pretty good hearing. His leathery skin gleams in the headlights, but this time, it's reinforced with crude but effective kevlar plates strapped across his skull and belly. Clever.

But clever won't save him.

The convoy panics. Officers open fire, small-arms rounds ricocheting off his armored hide. The roar of gunfire mixes with the guttural bellow of the T-rex, his massive jaws snapping at the nearest SUV. He's blocking the road, forcing the convoy to slow just as the explosions pick off the stragglers.

I push harder, my electromagnetic field wrapping around me like a cocoon. The wind screams in my ears as I barrel toward the oversized lizard, my fists crackling with energy.

"Rodney, wait!" Basilisk's voice buzzes in my earpiece. "Don't engage yet!"

"Not an option!" I shout back, dodging a chunk of debris as it sails past. The convoy can't afford to stop--not with Mr. Nothing and Mudslide onboard. If they're delayed even for a second, this whole operation falls apart.

I angle myself toward Mr. Tyrannosaur, aiming for his exposed flank. He's too focused on the convoy to notice me, so when I collide with his flank with the force of a human cannonball, he goes rearing back, his massive feet skidding into the ground, ripping up asphalt and kicking a cloud of dust around himself.

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"Nice try, big guy," I mutter, landing on the roof of a nearby SUV. My boots skid against the metal, and I crouch low, my eyes scanning for an opening.

Behind me, the pink-suited woman maneuvers the hijacked truck like it's a battering ram, slamming it into one of the escort vehicles. Sparks fly as metal crunches against metal, and the convoy scatters further. I try to aim another punch, hearing something about "anti-materiel rifles" in my earpiece, but something fast, invisible, bulletesque slams into my side. My entire body pulses as my electromagnetic fields dampen the worst of the impact, but it still stings, and I still need a second to catch my balance.

Motorcycle guy. "Peregrine, can you take out motorcycle guy?" I chatter between grit teeth, pushing myself a couple of inches off the surface of the vehicle, no longer tethered to its forward velocity. I squeeze my face shut, focusing back on Mr. Tyrannosaur. The kevlar plates make him tougher, sure, but they also slow him down. If I can keep him occupied long enough for the convoy to regroup, we might still have a chance.

"Rodney, what's your play?" Cryptid's voice cuts in, steady but urgent.

"Keep the big guy busy," I say, charging forward. "You and Basilisk handle the hijackers. I'll clear the road."

"You better," Cryptid growls. "We're not losing this cargo."

The truck rocks again as the convoy barrels forward, the rumble of engines mixing with the sharp staccato of gunfire. I don't have time to process everything--every second counts, and every delay inches us closer to disaster.

Ahead, Mr. Tyrannosaur roars, his armored frame gleaming in the flickering lights. Behind us, the Motorcycle Guy, who I've decided I hate the most, zigzags across the road, his invisible airburst attacks punctuating the chaos like a percussion line.

From my perch on a convoy SUV, I catch sight of him lining up another shot with his makeshift "finger gun." The air around his hand distorts, a ripple of compressed force spiraling toward the rear tires of a trailing escort vehicle. The tire explodes in a shower of shredded rubber, and the SUV skids violently, the driver barely managing to pull it back under control.

"Motorcycle Guy is on me," Peregrine's voice crackles through the comms, cutting sharply over the din. "I'll flush him out."

I glance up just in time to see her dive from above, wings folding close to her body as she rockets toward Motorcycle Guy. The convoy vehicles blur beneath her as she closes the distance in seconds, her agility unmatched even at this speed.

He doesn't flinch. He pivots sharply, using his... fingergun powers to slam his bike into a tight turn that sends him skimming dangerously close to the highway barrier. Peregrine is hot on his heels, weaving effortlessly between vehicles, her body a blur of motion.

I force myself to focus forward. Tyrannosaur is the bigger threat--literally--and the convoy can't afford to slow down. He's holding his ground ahead, his massive tail sweeping across the road like a wrecking ball, scattering debris and forcing the convoy into tighter formations.

"Rodney, I need a clear shot!" Cryptid's voice cuts through the comms. "Get out of the way!"

"Working on it!" I shout, launching myself into the air again.

My trajectory is clean, a straight line toward Tyrannosaur's exposed side. My fists crackle with energy as I close the gap, aiming for the weak points between the kevlar plates strapped across his hide. He doesn't see me coming until it's too late.

The impact sends him skidding, his massive feet gouging the asphalt as he struggles to regain balance. I press the advantage, driving him toward the shoulder of the highway. My muscles scream with effort as I push against his sheer weight, the electromagnetic charge in my body amplifying every ounce of force. I need to keep his flank open. Expose his belly. His head.

"Cryptid, now!" I yell.

From the escort vehicle, Cryptid snaps the bolt on his high-powered sniper rifle into place. The weapon looks almost absurdly oversized, like something out of a military sci-fi movie, but I know better than to underestimate it. I really need to ask, one of these days, what exactly that gun is.

The first shot rings out, a deafening crack that echoes across the highway. The impact punches through Tyrannosaur's armored plating, leaving a bloody gouge in his leathery skin. He roars in pain, swinging his head wildly as another shot follows, carving deeper into his side.

SWAT snipers join the assault, their rounds hammering into Tyrannosaur's frame with brutal precision. He staggers, his movements slower now, his roars laced with desperation.

Behind me, Peregrine makes her move against Motorcycle Guy. She dives low, her metal baton flashing as it catches the faint light. Motorcycle Guy tries to swerve, firing an airburst that grazes her wing, but she's faster. The baton connects with his motorcycle's engine, sending sparks flying as the bike lurches and skids. It flips over, and then hits a horizontal pose, screeching across the ground and nearly slamming into the space underneath a vehicle before everyone's combined momentum carries him away.

We careen past him, and he vanishes into the darkness.

Peregrine pulls up sharply, catching her breath as the disabled motorcycle smokes in the center of the road.

"He's grounded," she reports, her voice breathless but steady. "He's on foot."

"Let him go," Cryptid barks. "Focus on the convoy."

Mr. Tyrannosaur, realizing the tide has turned against him, lets out another deafening roar. His tail swings one last time, narrowly missing a convoy truck, before he rears back and unleashes a massive cloud of steam. The temperature spikes, the air around me suddenly thick and scalding. It hurts - it really stings in a way that most things don't, and for a minute, I'm flying totally blind, just maintaining speed.

"Rodney, what's happening?" Basilisk's voice is sharp in my earpiece.

"Steam," I cough, squinting through the haze. "He's... transforming again."

The steam clears just in time for me to see the faint silhouette of Tyrannosaur's human form whoosh past me, into the distance. He's already out of reach, blending into the chaos of the highway like a ghost. Just like last time. Damnit!

We careen past him, and he vanishes into the darkness.

I hover for a moment, my fists still crackling, before forcing myself to return to the convoy. The vehicles are regrouping, the drivers steering back into formation with practiced precision. Peregrine lands lightly on one of the trucks, her wings folding neatly behind her as she surveys the scene.

"Is he gone?" she asks, her voice tinged with relief.

"For now," I say, landing beside her. "But he'll be back. They're testing us."

Cryptid climbs out of the escort vehicle, his sniper rifle slung across his back. His face is grim, his eyes scanning the road ahead. At some point, the hijacked convoy hit an exit - are they going to rejoin us? I bet so. "They're not done," he says flatly. "This was just the opening act."

Basilisk emerges next, her movements quick but methodical as she reloads her sidearms. She glances at me, her expression unreadable. "Field's still holding," she says. "If someone's trying to scry us, I'm not getting any pings."

"Good," I say, taking a deep breath to steady myself. "We need to stay sharp. They've already got the drop on us once. It won't happen again. Peregrine, can you scout the next onramp? We need eyes on that hijacked truck."

She nods, takes a minute to crack her shoulders, and jumps.

We careen past her, and she vanishes into the darkness.