I should probably acknowledge that the chapter title is taken from that Billy Joel song. I imagine Finn probably jammed out to the vinyl edition of it back in the day.

"This is Chop Eight, checking in. Shot down target A113."

"Confirm there are no survivors. We cannot have them— especially not those spies— thwarting our plans."

"Surveying the area now."

Chop Eight followed the trail of smoke and destruction to A113's crash site. The jet looked mostly intact, except for a wing and part of the cabin, but was unmoving on the ground. Chop Eight hovered above the crash for a few more minutes, ready to fire missiles upon any surviving spies.

After five minutes, no spies emerged, and Chop Eight couldn't tell if A113 was still alive. The Apache decided to return to base. Even if anyone had survived the crash, they weren't going anywhere.

Please leave. Please leave. Leave leave leave….

Though Holley knew the helicopter couldn't hear her from outside, she found herself holding her breath. The windows were now holes filled only by a cool draft; she didn't dare try to look for the assailant, lest it spot her first and shoot. Meanwhile, Finn hung like a spider on the ceiling, listening intently. There was also a large, spiky tree limb on the floor below him, so that might have given him pause.

Eventually, the steady thump of its rotors faded. It was only then that Finn unlatched from the ceiling and joined her at the computers. "Are you alright, Shiftwell?"

"I'm fine. Our computers are another story." The computer terminal was staticky and cracked from the impact. "On the bright side, we must be close to the Lemons' hideout, if they cared to take us down."

"That's what I was thinking. However, I believe now is the time to bring in backup. I'd rather not, but Sid's a sitting Duck out here."

So she booted up her heads-up display, which thankfully had not been damaged. Then she sent a distress signal to their backup agents.

Like any reasonable car at this time of morning, Smith had been sleeping.

His computer had other plans. It wailed and buzzed, interrupting his pleasant dream about… actually, he didn't remember what it was about, but it made him feel happy. Now he was wide awake, at about five in the morning, and he was not happy.

McMissile and Shiftwell had managed to get hood-deep into trouble. Though it was probably McMissile's fault; he was legendary because of his ability to escape disaster, which meant getting into disaster in the first place. Shiftwell had always been a little more cautious, so it made sense that she had sent the signal.

"What did you two do?" Smith muttered to himself. Of course, the signal didn't describe what had happened, but it was a Grade 3— they required assistance as soon as possible. they seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. So that wasn't a good sign.

Turning off the signal, Smith tossed his military-grade chemistry kit in his trunk before slipping out of his rental garage. He turned on his headlights and went in search of his ride to Piston Peak.

Tucked away in the mountainous forests of Northern California, this C.H.R.O.M.E. base was built to look like an unremarkable airport. There were 40 hangars, five for larger aircraft like cargo planes, three medical hangars, and the rest were for the visiting jets and helicopters.

Early-bird vehicles drove with barely a sound, in respect for everyone else's desire to sleep. A few forklifts nodded to Smith as he passed by. He returned the gesture, heading for the helicopter hangars. He stopped in front of one and rapped on its large door. Someone inside yelped, followed by a muffled crash. Seconds later, the door rolled open, revealing an irritated HAL Dhruv. "What's going on?"

"The moment we've been waiting for, Mandi. They just sent a distress signal. I want to be en route ASAP. You're fueled up already, correct?"

"Of course." Mandi yawned, rolling out of the hangar. "Any idea what went wrong? It's only 0500."

"They didn't say. Though given it was a Grade 3 alert, it's a serious situation. Sid probably crashed."

"Oh, no. I hope he's still alive… so I can kill him."

"Not so loud, the lawyers might hear."

Mandi grumbled about Siddeley's incompetence until she reached the taxiway's check-over station. Its primary function was examining the vehicles' weapons and instruments before take-off, and they also provided caffeine for anyone leaving before 0900.

In a short time, Smith was in Mandi's cabin, and she was in a marginally better mood. She fired her rotors up, sending a distinct beating sound across the tarmac. And then they were off, heading towards Piston Peak National Park to save it from disaster. Or, at least, mitigate the effects of said disaster.

Holley connected her HUD to the computer terminal. "I'll try to get Sid's vitals. He's been quiet, so hopefully he's just unconscious. Also… do you remember when you were captured by that helicopter?"

Finn looked everywhere but at her, settling on the nearest window. "It seems everyone else remembers it for me."

"How did you not hear it?"

"The million-euro question, Miss Shiftwell. But we do have more important things to worry about, such as Sid's missing wing."

She did a double-take. There was, in fact, a large gap just outside the window, where Sid's wing would have been. Her computer finally accessed Sid's vitals, which confirmed a significant loss of fluids. "That's not good," was all she could think of to say, though it felt like an understatement.

"It seems the other wing is intact," Finn reported, crossing the cabin to look out the other side. "Torn up though… And did you hear one of the engines give out before we went down?"

She nodded, scanning the vital signs once more. "In summary, he's stranded. Still unconscious, too, but at least he's not in pain."

As soon as the words left her mouth, the cabin shifted, and the overhead intercom crackled. "Owwww."

On her screen, his vitals improved. Everything except the fluid loss. "Finn, can you try to patch that up?"

Finn was already nudging a first-aid kit out of a compartment in the floor. "On it. We should have enough plaster…."

"What were you just saying?" Sid asked. He didn't seem to notice the slur in his own voice, but Holley made note of it.

"We're analyzing our options," she said. "That chopper left, though I doubt he's off to get help. So I just signaled for backup."

"B-b-but they can't see me like this—"

"We have no choice. They'll be here in a few hours. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I guess. I… I can't feel the left wing."

"Nothing some duct tape can't fix," Finn said casually, forcing the rear door open. It was a bit of a cruel lie, but they couldn't have Sid panicking.

Collectively, the smokejumpers had seen a lot of things in their lives. But never had they seen an aerial battle over the park. Not only were the aircraft flying low, they had flown right over the burn area— the one Piston Peak Air Attack had just contained.

Once the armed chopper retreated, Dynamite instructed Drip and Blackout to help her find the remaining jet (or the remains of the jet). This left Pinecone and Avalanche to monitor the fire area. If the embers blown by the aircraft broke containment, they'd call the rest of the team in.

Drip took every shortcut down to the crash site— meaning, he jumped off all the cliffs to save time on the trails. Dynamite and Blackout pulled him out of several ditches he got stuck in. This made the trip to the crash site fifteen minutes longer than it had to be.

A trail of smashed trees along the lake led to the jet, which was wedged into the ground, almost buried in debris. Oh, and he was missing a wing. A silver-blue car shuffled around him, fussing with a white box.

The smokejumpers cautiously approached. For once, Drip was speechless, and Blackout looked expectantly toward Dynamite. The ATV nodded, then called out, "Hey! What happened over there?"

The car startled, eyes darting up at them. "Just a bit of engine trouble!" he shouted back. "No one was harmed!"

Dynamite rolled her eyes. Aside from the jet's obviously-absent wing, she'd witnessed an attack. Something was up, and it was her duty to not leave until she found out what. "Where did you come from?"

"The lodge reopening. We've got reservations there. Do you work there?"

"Never. We're firefighters. I'm Dynamite. These are my colleagues, Blackout and Drip. What were you doing in this airspace? It's off-limits to the public, not safe for anyone."

"We didn't mean to trespass at all," the green car said, applying a large strip of gauze to the oil-dripping stub where the wing used to be. "There was a sudden mechanical issue so we couldn't make it back—"

"We saw the whole thing," Drip said excitedly. "It was like, pew pew pew! And you were like, whoosh! And then you went, BOOM! So we came like, 'oh, cool!' And here we are!"

Dynamite gave him a hard side nudge. She had wanted to see how long the car would lie to her face, but now he knew what they knew.

Another car sped out of the cabin, looking frantic. "We just got attacked by a random helicopter! I need to speak to the manager. Where do I file my complaint about this? You shouldn't allow armed aircraft in the park!"

Dynamite hummed. "From what we witnessed, your plane was also armed—"

Her radio buzzed with an incoming call. Even turning down the volume didn't do much to shield her eardrums from a screaming, obnoxious voice. "DYNAMITE! DYNAMITE! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

"At the crash site, Avalanche," Dynamite answered, down to business. "What's up at your location?"

"THE FIRE BROKE CONTAINMENT! IT'S SPLIT IN TWO, AND SPREADING!"

Expected, but still a bad situation. "What are you telling me for? Call Blade!"

Avalanche hung up. Dynamite blew out a frustrated breath. "You flew over a burn area," she said to the cars. "Now we have to deal with that. For now, the safest place is back at the lodge. We'll escort you to a trail."

"But what about our jet?" the white car asked, glancing at the wreckage.

"We'll notify the rescue team," Dynamite said, "but with his size, we'll need to call someone in to transport him. Our immediate priority is controlling the fires. Come with us, we'll get you to a trail that leads back to the lodge."

The passengers of the downed jet hesitated, but followed the smokejumpers away from the crash site.

"Wait, what?" the jet cried. "No, no, no! Don't leave me here! I'm in mortal peril! My oil pressure is dropping by the second! I don't want to die alone!"

"He can be a little dramatic," the white car said. Understatement.

Only three minutes passed before Dynamite realized they were indeed in mortal peril. The group was driving along in an awkward silence, broken only by crunching branches and pebbles. Blackout said something about the trail being just over a hill. Then—

PEWPEWPEW!

Bark burst as bullets flew into the trees. The smokejumpers acted on instinct; Drip nearly jumped up a tree, Blackout's circular saw revved up, and Dynamite ducked behind a rock twice her size (don't judge her, she didn't have any gadgets that could be used offensively).

Meanwhile, the mysterious passengers bolted. The farther away they got, the more distant the shots became. It couldn't have been a coincidence. Dynamite thought she glimpsed a few cars following the mysterious tourists, but it all happened so fast.

When the forest was relatively quiet, Drip whisper-screamed, "What was that?!"

"Dunno," Dynamite said. "It's definitely something we're not trained for. And those guys are going to great lengths to hide it."

"I bet Cabbie knows what's going on," Drip said conspiratorially.

"Should we alert the proper authorities?" Blackout asked.

Dynamite nodded. "There's probably someone who handles active shooters. However, we can't forget the fire. Protocol says to return to base and meet with the mud droppers."

"Let's roll!" Drip declared, bounding off in a random direction.

"Wrong way."

Drip came back, heading in the opposite direction. "Let's roll!"

To say that Finn and Holley drove for their lives would be an understatement. If there had been a speed limit in the woods, they would have run over the sign stating it. And they probably wouldn't have seen the sign, because they drove without headlights. Not the safest thing to do, but it was their best bet of losing their pursuers.

Unfortunately, their sniper didn't seem to lose track of them. Must be using infrared detection, Finn figured. He swung up into a tree to return fire, though his bullets were nothing more than warning shots when he couldn't see who he was aiming at. Judging by the frequency of the shots, there was only one sniper, but multiple engines were in pursuit. Their headlights were fairly small at the moment, but still too close for comfort.

After one particular series of shots, he heard a cry of pain. He looked down just in time to see Holley spin out and careen downhill. This time, she slammed into a real sign— a map along the trail. It collapsed on top of her.

With a gasp, Finn swung down to her. He didn't bother asking if she was okay, because it was clear that she was not. Instead, he used a grappling hook to move the debris aside. After that, she shuffled behind the cover of a bush. They both saw the issue at the same time: her right back tire had been shot out.

"Well, that's inconvenient," Holley muttered, testing her weight on it. "I think I can stay in the game. Just— ow! Just give me a minute."

Beams of light swept over the top of the hill, several feet above the spies. Counting the sets of headlights, Finn formulated a plan. "Listen," he whispered. "I can draw them away. If you can get back to the lodge, you can get repaired and run mission control. Direct our backup toward the Lemon lair."

"That's a terrible idea," Holley whispered back.

"It's also unwise for you to keep driving through these woods like a rally racer."

"I can manage." Wings slid out from Holley's sides. She hovered just enough to relieve her tire of the pressure. "See? I can just fly through the forest. We might be able to outpace them, too."

"But what will you do when we infiltrate their lab?"

"Well… I would, if there's enough space. It provides a combat advantage—"

"In the trees!" someone shouted, and all the headlights tilted upward. "No, wait. It's just a bird. Where are they?!"

"I heard something up ahead!" another voice said.

Said bird flew over the agents' hiding spot. Holley lowered to the ground, turning off her jets. She looked annoyed to take a backseat. "I'll catch up to you as soon as I can. Be careful."

"I can't promise anything." And he really, really wanted to call her one of the 101 pet names he'd researched, just to irk her even more, but none came to mind. So he turned on his headlights and sped down the trail fast enough to rival Lightning McQueen. (Not really, but he liked to think of it that way.) And just as he'd hoped, all of their pursuers followed him. All eight... nine... no, ten of them.

Didn't think this through. Oh, well.