Sam was jostled awake as the Solstice slowed and turned off the road. Squinting open his eyes, he saw that the countryside had transitioned from low, rolling hills to a flat scrubby steppe sometime over the night. The convoy had pulled into the parking lot of a large building — the sign near the highway read "Shutters Hotel" in bold letters. Jazz followed the Topkick down the length of the parking lot, passing the wide double doors to the hotel lobby, before parking in front of a secondary entrance near the far end of the building. The other vehicles pulled alongside him, one by one, before cutting their engines.
"Where are we?" Sam rasped.
"Elko, Nevada," Jazz replied.
Sam's heart clenched at the confirmation they had reached Nevada. The Autobot embassy was located near Jasper, which was only an hour or two from California, but they couldn't be more than four or five hours away from their destination.
"Why are we stopping?" Sam asked softly.
"Breakfast," Jazz replied good-naturedly, popping open his passenger side door. "It's the most important meal of the day."
Sam stared at the open door for a long moment. He wasn't hungry in the least, and the thought of listening to Lennox and the others chat over muffins and coffee turned his stomach. Eventually, Jazz swung his passenger-side door back and forth, as though tapping a foot expectantly, and Sam reluctantly climbed out of the cab. The early morning air was cool, just this side of chilly, steaming his breath. Sam rubbed his arms as he turned, surveying their surroundings. The steppe stretched around them in every direction, dotted with sagebrush and wheatgrass. The hotel was located on a raised area of land, which provided an unobstructed view of Elko, Nevada. It was a decent sized town for something so rural, with buildings of differing sizes all clustered together in the otherwise empty grassland. There was no other sign of civilization as far as the eye could see.
The sound of car doors slamming and approaching footsteps caused Sam to turn his head. Lennox and Epps were standing on the sidewalk, talking quietly to one another, as the others made their way towards the building. The whole group looked rumpled and listless after the night spent on the road.
"Ready, kid?" Jazz asked.
Sam startled badly in surprise — the holoform had materialized behind him without a sound. Jazz raised an eyebrow at him, causing Sam to flush in embarrassment. He hastily pushed his hands into his pockets and walked over to join the others. The sound of country music and the smell of something delicious greeted them as Morrison opened the door. The diner was surprisingly busy, even though the sun was only just beginning to peek above the horizon. There was a group of heavy-set blue-collar men sitting near the bathrooms and a few elderly people chatting together at the counter. The rest of the patrons appeared to be business-types. They were sitting at tables in pairs and small groups, chatting over their laptops or reading on their phones as they ate.
Sam soon found himself sandwiched between Kelley and Morrison in a booth against the far wall. He sat in silence as their waitress appeared, taking drink orders and reciting the breakfast specials. When she turned to look at him, pen and pad at the ready, Sam just shook his head.
"You sure, Sam?" Lennox asked, brow furrowing. "There won't be anywhere to stop once we get back on the road."
The coaxing tone of the older man's voice, coupled with the reminder of where this was all heading, made Sam's throat close up with emotion. He couldn't have answered even if he wanted to, so he turned and stared out the window instead.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Kelley politely spoke up. "Let's have an order of biscuits for the table, please."
The waitress made a polite noise of acknowledgment, before gathering up the menus that Sam hadn't even opened and making her way to the kitchen. Sam was aware of the looks being exchanged around the table, but he steadfastly ignored them. The sky was beginning to turn orange and rosy over the mountains, pale gold light streaming through the windows.
Absentmindedly, Sam reached out, fiddling with the sugar packets in the little dish on the table. He wondered whether it would be hot in Jasper when they arrived. He had never seen the desert before, even though he had grown up in California. Would they keep him in Jasper long? Or would they transfer him to Diego Garcia? Sam's stomach twisted at the thought. The island was a fortress unto itself — no one got in or out without the Autobot's express approval.
The jangle of the bell above the door pulled Sam out of his introspection. A moment later, an older man sauntered up to their table, before bumping Anderson with his hip in an obvious signal to move over. Anderson snorted, before shifting down the bench, making room. Sam watched as the stranger slid into the booth. He was older, maybe early-50s, with a weathered face and a rakish smile. As soon as he was settled, the stranger leaned forward, planting his forearms on the table and peering at Sam.
"It's nice to meet you properly," he said, by way of greeting. "I thought you'd be taller."
As he spoke, the stranger extended his hand across the table. Sam's eyes flicked down—the stranger was wearing a thick gold ring on each finger and a kabbalah bracelet tied around his wrist—before he crossed his arms over his chest.
"And you are?" he asked coolly.
The stranger held out his hand for another moment, before chuckling good-naturedly and twirling his wrist in a flourish. "Steeljaw, the one and only, at your service."
Anderson made an exasperated noise as he tugged his place mat out from beneath Steeljaw's elbow. "Do you mind?"
The corners of Sam's mouth turned down in a frown. Steeljaw was about as common a household name as Jazz or Hoist, and it didn't take a genius—which he was, technically—to put two and two together.
"You're a mechanoid," he surmised.
"Mechanimal," Lennox corrected, taking a drink of his coffee. "Steeljaw is one of Blaster's cassettes."
Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. "A mech… animal?" Admittedly, he wasn't well-versed in Cybertronian physiology, but the term was unfamiliar.
"Yeah, they have those. This one looks like a lion fucked a dilophosaurus," Morrison put in wryly.
Steeljaw shot him a cool look. "That's a lot of syllables, Derek. I'm impressed."
Morrison grinned at him in return. "Who's a nice kitty, 'eh? Pspspsps."
Judging by the half-smiles and good-natured laughter around the table, this was hardly the first time that Morrison had made a joke at Steeljaw's expense. The easy camaraderie needled Sam, sharp and hot, right under his ribs. He resented it—and resented them for it. Laughing and joking and enjoying themselves, as though Sam was a part of their group, instead of a prisoner.
"My frame is one-of-a-kind," Steeljaw sniffed. "It's not my fault your wet little processors can't grasp aesthetics and function."
"Rude," Anderson commented, dryly.
"Accurate," Steeljaw retorted.
"Ignore him," Lennox cut across the bickering, ostensibly for Sam's benefit. "Steeljaw thinks he's hot shit."
"That's because I am," Steeljaw grinned, seemingly unaffected by the exasperated looks being directed his way. "I'm the total package—unique design, hand-crafted frame, a microline 7950X3D processor with triple redundancies. I'm a miracle of modern construction."
"And so humble," Kelley snorted.
"Nothin' to be humble about," Steeljaw smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'm the best tracker in this Podunk little corner of the galaxy for a reason—you're welcome, by the way."
The words hadn't been directed at anyone in particular, but the mood around the table immediately shifted, growing uneasy, almost… strained. It took a moment for Sam to register the words, and when they did, his chest went tight.
"Tracker?" he asked, lowly.
"Steelja—" Jazz warned.
Steeljaw laughed lightly. "Well, of course. I picked-up your trail in Philadelphia and followed you to Georgia. I thought you would have figured it out by now. How else do you think we found you?"
"Jesus Christ, Steeljaw," Epps snapped. "Read the fucking room."
Sam could feel the heat stealing up his neck and across his face — he knew he must be burning red. "You were the motorcycle," he realized all at once, "the one that cut around the back of the bus station." As soon as the words left his mouth, it was as though they triggered a cascade of realizations, one after the other. "If you followed me to Valdosta, then… was that you in the park? Near the diner?"
Steeljaw said nothing in reply, which was an answer in its own right. That night in Valdosta had been one of the bleakest nights of Sam's life. He had been alone, hungry, foot-sore, and terrified. It burned to know that his misery and degradation had had an audience.
Steeljaw's expression shifted, growing discomforted, but Sam wasn't paying attention. His focus had turned inwards, replaying the events of the last few days over in his mind. Jazz had said that their sensory arrays could detect bio-signatures up to a half-mile, but Steeljaw had tracked him all the way from fucking Philadelphia. And if he had picked up Sam in Augusta, then that meant the S&R team had known his exact location for hours. How long had they been watching him before deciding to close the net?
"Take a breath, Sam," Kelley urged in a soft voice. "You're alright."
Sam jolted back to himself to find the others watching him with a wary sort of concern. It took a moment before he registered the fact his chest was burning. He sucked in a harsh breath, before forcing himself to look Steeljaw in the face.
"How far is your range?" he ground out.
The holoform briefly looked as though he might not answer, but then he murmured, almost abashedly, "700 miles, give or take."
Sam stared at him in disbelief. Seven-hundred-fucking-miles. With a range like that, escape had never even been an option. Sam had been screwed the moment that Sunstreaker and Anderson walked into Maccaddam's bar — he just hadn't known it yet.
Abruptly, Sam shot to his feet so fast that his thighs knocked against the table, sloshing coffee across the laminate. "Move," he demanded, giving Morrison a sharp shove. "Move!"
The older man hesitated, casting an uncertain look at Jazz. The not-so-subtle reminder that Sam wasn't the one calling the shots made his chest constrict with helpless fury. Sam opened his mouth to say something sharp and cutting, but he could feel his throat going tight, and he knew there was no way he could speak without his voice cracking. The realization made him flush hotly in humiliation.
"It's alright, Derek," Lennox murmured, his eyes locked on Sam. "He can go."
Obediently, Epps and Morrison slid out of the booth so Sam could get out. As soon as he was on his feet, Sam forcibly shouldered past the two larger men and started across the dining room. The tightness in Sam's throat was getting worse. He quickened his step, narrowly avoiding a collision with a harried server who had appeared from behind the counter, before barreling towards the hallway with the 'RESTROOMS' sign hanging over it.
Sam hit the door to the men's room shoulder-first, throwing it wide open with a bang. It was a small space—two stalls, two urinals—and a quick check revealed the room was empty. He pushed the door shut behind him, before turning the lock with a twist of his wrist. He didn't even realize he was crying until he registered the sound of his hitching breath. He slapped his hand against the door, first in frustration, and then again because the pain was grounding.
The last week had been for nothing.
All of the desperation, the loneliness, the uncertainty. There was never any chance that Sam could have escaped them. Zero. None. It didn't matter how carefully Sam had planned, or what deals he had made, or how clever he had been. There was no contingency that didn't end with him being carted off to Diego Garcia.
Sam backpedaled away from the door until he hit the opposite wall. He had tried not to think about escape, especially not after his latest episode, but it had sat there, smoldering like a banked ember in the back of his mind. He wanted to believe that the Autobots had an effective treatment for whatever the fuck was wrong with him, but even if they somehow managed to cure the seizures and hallucinations, it wouldn't change anything. He was still an anti-occupationalist to his core. He had objected to the Autobots' interference and overreach on principle alone, but now? After they had destroyed his life?
Jesus Christ.
Sam screwed his eyes shut as he slid down the wall to sit on the floor. What in the hell was he supposed to do? The thought of spending the rest of his life on Diego Garcia under constant supervision made him nauseous – and it would be constant supervision, he knew with cold certainty, because they would never let him leave, knowing what he knew, and he would never choose to stay. The thought caused a cold sweat to break out on his brow. Lennox had said that no one would hurt him, but Sam had no idea how far that generosity would extend. What would they do the first time he tried to leave the island? The second? The hundredth? Prime's Special Operations hadn't exactly earned their reputation by being lenient.
Unbidden, a vision of his future stretched out in front of him: alone on a foreign island, being told where to go, when to sleep, what to eat, surrounded by people chosen for him by Autobot High Command. And what would the treatments for his seizures entail? Medication? Electroconvulsive therapy? Surgery? Sam ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, but it did nothing to abate the sting of tears. He had once read about resective surgery in a moment of morbid curiosity. The statistics had been chilling. Loss of motor skills, vision problems, speech difficulties, memory problems.
Sam would rather die.
The sound of muffled talking in the hall had Sam's head snapping up — only to find Jazz leaning against the bathroom door. The holoform was watching him with an expression that was difficult to interpret but wasn't unkind.
"Are you kidding me?" Sam croaked.
"Sorry, kid," Jazz murmured.
Sam gripped his knees, fingers digging into the denim hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Is this a fucking game to you people?"
"Nah, Sam," Jazz shook his head. "It's not a game."
Sam rubbed his face with the back of his arm, trying to hide the evidence of his distress, but he knew it would do nothing for his red-rimmed eyes and splotchy skin. "Get out, Jazz," he said, voice tremulous and uneven. "Just let me have my breakdown in peace."
The sound of muffled talking returned, growing louder. Jazz didn't take his eyes off of Sam. "You can have a few more minutes to calm down, alright? But you can't stay in here."
Sam laughed, an ugly expulsion of sound. "Or what? You gonna make me leave?"
Jazz seemed to regard him closely for a moment. "Do you need me to?"
The question was oddly gentle, as though Jazz were offering instead of threatening. Sam stared at the holoform in confusion, before there was a loud knock on the door.
"Do you mind?" a muffled voice asked. "I gotta take a piss."
"Bathroom's closed," Jazz called over his shoulder without taking his eyes off Sam. "Use the ladies."
Sam screwed his eyes shut and let his head fall back to thunk against the wall. Jazz was right. He wouldn't be able to stay here forever — sooner or later, management was going to take issue with him holing up in the men's room. He took a deep breath in through his nose, holding it for the count of five, before releasing it slowly through his mouth. It helped clear some of the static inside his head, and so he did it again.
"Atta boy," Jazz murmured, as though to himself.
Sam lifted his head and fixed the holoform with a cold look. "Fuck you, Jazz."
Jazz chuckled quietly, lips quirking in a faint smile as he pushed away from the door. "You should get something to eat. Hoist's nagging me about your blood sugar."
Sam slowly clambered to his feet, before making his way over to the counter. He took his time washing his hands, letting the water run over his fingers as he gathered himself. When he was finished, Jazz unlocked the door and pulled it open. There were two men standing in the hallway near the dining room — bigger guys, both wearing faded denim overalls and collared shirts with sleeves rolled up to their elbows. They turned to watch as Sam and Jazz made their way towards them.
"Everything alright, fellas?" asked the nearest man.
Sam flushed hotly in embarrassment, but it was Jazz who answered. "Sorry about the wait. Bathroom's free."
The other man, who looked to be the older of the two, was peering at Sam. "You alright, son?"
Jazz smiled, teeth flashing. "He's fine. Too much road food – you know how it is."
"I didn't ask you," the older man said, stiffly. "I asked him."
Sam faltered at the tension in the older man's voice. At the same time, Jazz stepped close, pressing his hand against the small of Sam's back. "C'mon, kid. The others are waiting."
The older man glanced between Jazz and Sam, taking in Sam's pale, drawn face and red-rimmed eyes, before his gaze flicked down, lingering on Sam's throat. The older man's expression darkened, growing stormy, and it was only then that Sam remembered the bruises he had given himself during his last fit. Sam flushed hotly in embarrassment, lifting a hand to his neck, but it was already too late.
"Bobby, go get the boys," the older man instructed, without ever taking his eyes off Sam's face. "And tell Kitty to give Sheriff Collins a call."
"I really wish you wouldn't, Bobby," Jazz said mildly.
Sam's heart lurched strangely inside his chest, before picking up in double-time. In a single instant, he had two diametrically opposed reactions. The first was hope. These men could help him — he didn't need much, just someone to intervene on his behalf, and if the Sheriff got involved, he might have a chance.
But as Jazz's hand firmed against the small of his back, Sam's hope was replaced with bitter disappointment. The Autobots had jurisdictional authority in all 51 states, and they weren't letting him go without a fight.
The older man drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at Jazz. At the same time, Sam caught sight of Lennox and Epps hurrying across the dining room. The two men made their way around curious patrons and waitstaff, who were watching the scene unfold with no small degree of interest. Sam's stomach sank. He already knew how this was going to end for him.
"It's alright, I'm fine," Sam forced the words out. "Thank-you for asking."
"Well, you don't look fine, son," the older man said, gruffly. "If you'll pardon me sayin' so."
An older woman rose from a nearby table, before glancing sidelong at the two men. Something wordless passed between the three of them, and then she offered Sam a small smile. "Honey, you look just about done-in. Is there someone I can call for you?"
The bell above the door jangled again. Sam turned his head in time to see two men enter the diner. Recognition came hard and fast. The first was the holoform from the diner, the older man that Sam had crashed into when he tried to run and the other was the younger blond from the barn. Sam's mouth went dry as the older holoform moved to join Lennox, while the younger looking guy took position near the door.
"No, really. I'm okay," he repeated, voice strained. "Like he said, I'm…just not feeling well."
A skeptical look crossed the woman's face, but Lennox arrived before she could comment. "Everything alright?" he asked, voice too tight to be casual.
"Everything's fine, Lennox," Jazz assured him, before tipping his head towards the door. "Why don't you take Sam outside? He's feeling under the weather."
"That sounds like a good idea," Lennox agreed, still peering closely at Sam. "What do you think, Sam? Want some fresh air?"
"Yeah," Sam heard himself agree. "Yeah, okay."
Lennox stepped between Sam and his would-be rescuers, before wrapping an arm around his shoulders and steering him towards the door. Sam couldn't tell whether the gesture was meant to be supportive or restraining, but he let himself be maneuvered through the dining area without complaint. He could feel the curious stares boring into his back as they made their way outside. The older man led him towards the Pontiac Solstice, which opened its passenger-side door of its own accord. As soon as Sam was in the seat, Lennox leaned down, bracing one hand against the doorframe and the other against the hood.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
Sam had no idea how to answer his question without breaking down, so instead he asked, "What's going to happen to them?"
"Who, the locals?" Lennox asked, as though in surprise. "Nothing's going to happen to them. Jazz'll sort it out."
Sam stared numbly through the windshield. He could just make out the figures milling inside the restaurant through the glass windows. The crowd looked as though it had grown since they stepped outside.
Lennox seemed to interpret his silence as an indication of doubt, because his expression grew troubled, almost pained. "Nothing's going to happen, Sam. It was just a misunderstanding. Hey, look at me." He waited until Sam had angled his head just far enough to meet Lennox's gaze, and then he said, low and persuasive, "I'm serious. No one's in any trouble. Alright?"
Sam stared at him for a moment longer, before turning back towards the diner. He could make out the sight of Anderson and Morrison standing next to the glass doors, seemingly engaged in conversation with the younger-looking holoform that had taken position near the exit. The sight caused something hot and thick to rise up in his throat. Sam swallowed reflexively, but the lump didn't budge.
The next twenty minutes passed as though in a fog. Kelley stepped outside shortly thereafter, handing Lennox a take-out bag, before making his way over to the red Bugatti parked further down the building. Lennox nodded his thanks, and then he climbed into the Solstice's driver's seat, passing the bag to Sam across the center console without comment. Sam accepted it, fingers reflexively curling around the brown paper. Morrison and Anderson stepped outside next, before going their separate ways. Morrison glanced inside the Solstice as he passed, locking eyes with Sam and offering him an encouraging smile. Sam pointedly looked away.
Epps was next through the door, but rather than letting it swing shut behind him, as Sam expected, he stood there, holding it open for the next person. Sam's heart climbed up into his throat at the sight of the two older men following him outside. Epps led them over to the Topkick, before leaning through the passenger side door to pull something out of the glove box. At the same time, the Solstice's engine rolled over and the dashboard brightened to life.
"Seatbelts," Jazz instructed, voice coming from the speakers.
Obediently, Lennox twisted, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across his chest. Sam barely noticed. He was staring at three men who had stepped back onto the sidewalk. Epps seemed to be explaining something, his expression serious and reserved, but Sam's attention was focused on the two men standing beside him. He searched their faces, looking for any evidence of their earlier outrage, but it was gone, replaced by a quiet unease that he recognized all too well.
Suddenly, the Solstice reversed out of the parking spot. Sam turned his head, glancing through the windshield as the other cars pulled out of their spots, taking their respective positions in the convoy. By the time Sam glanced back towards the sidewalk, the two men were already making their way back inside the restaurant. He watched the door swing shut behind them in sinking resignation.
"Seatbelt," Jazz repeated himself.
Sam grimaced, but he didn't have the energy for another altercation. He grabbed the seatbelt, before yanking it across his chest and sliding the latch into place. A moment later, the Camaro at the head of the convoy started towards the road. The other vehicles followed behind him, one by one, and then Jazz was in motion. The radio turned on, something soft and instrumental spilling from the speakers as they navigated onto the highway. Sam dropped the take-out bag on the center console and slouched down in his seat. The highway curved around the town of Elko, before turning westwards. The steppe stretched out in front of them all the way to the low, rolling mountains in the distance.
"Kelley wasn't sure what you'd like, so he got you a few different things," Lennox said, breaking the silence.
"Okay," Sam replied tonelessly.
Lennox hesitated, fingers curling and uncurling around the steering wheel. "Listen, Sam, I know you're anxious, but I promise—"
"Don't." It was a single word, but it was sufficient to shut Lennox up. "Just… don't."
Sam stared through the windshield, watching the steppe slowly transition to desert as they drove. He was aware of Lennox glancing at him — the older man was trying to be subtle about it, but Sam could still feel the weight of his gaze. Thankfully, neither Lennox nor Jazz were feeling particularly chatty. There was the occasional burst of chatter from the radio, discussion about their route or updates on traffic, but otherwise it was quiet. The convoy turned off the highway onto a small rural route sometime later, and then Jazz pulled across the double-yellow. The Solstice accelerated down the length of the convoy, before pulling back into the right lane, taking point.
Sam found himself glancing reflexively at the clock as they drove. Somehow, time seemed to slow to a crawl while also jumping ahead in jerky increments. 6:51. 6:58. 7:32. 8:00.
Sam closed his eyes and tried not to think, but it was easier said than done. His anxiety returned in full-force, ratcheting higher with every mile they put behind them. It wasn't long before Sam began bouncing his heel against the floor of the car. He glanced down at the dashboard for what felt like the millionth time that morning. 8:44.
Suddenly, the loud whoop-whoop of sirens cut across the silence. Sam's head jerked up in surprise to find a police cruiser speeding towards them with its lights flashing. For a brief moment, hope surged, and Sam white-knuckled the center console and the door-handle. He had a split second to wonder, incredulously, whether the men at the diner had followed through on their threat to call the Sheriff, but as the two vehicles neared one another, Sam realized that the police cruiser didn't have a driver.
Beside him, Lennox laughed under his breath. "Yeah, here we go."
Sam shot the older man an incredulous look. At the same time, the Solstice sharply accelerated, pressing him back against the seat as the speedometer needle buried itself in the red. As soon as the two vehicles were almost nose to nose with one another, the black and white sedan suddenly engaged its brakes, swinging around in a cloud of gray-black smoke, before accelerating to match Jazz's speed. The two vehicles were soon racing side-by-side, leaving the convoy behind them. Neither vehicle managed to keep the advantage for long — as soon as one pulled ahead, the other would accelerate to close the gap. Soon, they were tearing down the highway at an impossible speed, the desert blurring around them.
Sam turned, staring at the empty cruiser in wide-eyed disbelief, when the part of his brain that wasn't currently frozen in shock distantly recalled that Prime's second-in-command was a Dodge Charger Pursuit cruiser. Finally, Sam managed to unstick his mouth long enough to manage a strangled, "What the fuck?"
Lennox laughed again, louder and more jovial this time. "They haven't seen each other in a while," he offered, as though that explained things.
At the same time, Jazz's voice cut over the radio, as cheerful as ever, "Prowler, sweetspark, did'ya miss me?"
The radio crackled with static, and then an unfamiliar voice was saying, "Jazz, desist immediately." The voice was male and authoritative, and at the moment, it sounded coolly disapproving.
"Mmm, sorry babe," Jazz purred in reply. "I can't hear you over the sound of you eatin' my exhaust."
And then Sam was pressed back into his seat for a second time as the Solstice throttled forward, leaving the police cruiser behind in a cloud of dust. He had a brief moment to wonder whether he was about to die on some back-country road in the middle of a dick-measuring contest between two sentient cars, when the Dodge Charger roared ahead of them. Sam glanced reflexively at the speedometer, which was buried all the way into the red, when his attention was caught by the police cruiser fishtailing in front of them, turning a tight half-circle in a screech of tires until it was driving backwards, the two cars practically kissing bumpers.
"Ohmygod," Sam croaked.
"I know," Jazz replied, the grin audible in his voice. "Prowler's a real smokeshow, ain't he?"
Sam opened his mouth to say something cutting, when the police cruiser suddenly whipped around again, before break-checking them in warning. This time, Jazz slowed down obligingly, the speedometer needle slowly decreasing until it hit the legal speed limit. Sam knew a moment of profound relief, before the police cruiser slowed down even further as it turned onto an access road. Sam glanced up in confusion — and then his insides turned to ice. The road was bisected by a chain-link fence about three hundred meters from the highway, and beyond that, Sam could see the familiar sight of the Mesa rising from the desert.
During the adrenaline-soaked chase, Sam hadn't been paying attention to how much distance they had covered – and now it was too late.
They had arrived.