A mile away from the checkpoint, one of the numerous trucks pulls to one side, slowing to a halt, one of the tyres having picked up a puncture. The driver dismounts, and sets to work repairing and re-inflating; he fails to notice two fleet-footed strangers swiftly sequester themselves in the cab. The repair and re-inflation complete, the driver returns to his seat in the cab. As he reaches for the ignition, a nunchaku is wrapped around his neck; the wielder pulls him hard against the back of the seat.
"You will drive us past the checkpoint, then pull up out of view," growls a female voice.
"I'd do as she says if I were you," a gruff male voice adds; the owner waves a dulled sai in the driver's peripheral vision.
The driver croaks an agreement.
"Good," the female voice continues, loosening her grip, allowing the nunchaku to slip round behind the seat. "Now drive."
The driver reaches for the ignition, hand shaking. The truck shudders into life, and the driver slowly pulls away and re-joins the convoy. In moments, the truck reaches the checkpoint; the driver pulls up and rolls down the window. A soldier approaches, beckoning for ID; the driver complies. The soldier analyses the ID for a moment; satisfied everything is above board, he steps back and waves the driver to continue. A few hundred yards past the checkpoint, the truck pulls to one side, parking behind a large lump of twisted metal at the edge of the wreckage. Two figures emerge from the cab, and disappear inside the wreckage.
Hanna yanks off her balaclava, and looks back out from the wreckage, at the truck that carried them in. The driver, still shaking from his ordeal, wastes no time reversing and scurrying back to safety.
"Well, we're in," Rob says, removing his balaclava. "We'd better get moving if we don't want to be spotted; the driver will almost certainly alert the troops about what just happened."
Hanna grunts an agreement, and starts to delve deeper into the wreckage; Rob follows.