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something Jason supposed was a kind of jet. It reminded him of the United States stealth fighters—all sharp angles and stubby wings. But it looked large enough to carry them all.
    “The only problem,” Marie said, “is I don’t know how we’re getting out. There’re no controls on the plane to open the hanger doors. If someone has to leave the hanger to open the doors, they’ll never get back without being captured.”
    Jason studied the hanger door.
    “I think I have an idea,” he said. “Brandt, Pridament, I’m going to need your help. Jackson, take Gwynn. Make sure he and Sophia are secured on board.”
    After handing Gwynn to Jackson, Pridament joined Jason and Brandt.
    “Pridament, you use that lightning of yours to weaken the center of the hanger door. Then Brandt, shove a wedge of concrete into it, then rip that thing open. Doable?”
    Pridament nodded, yes .
    On the other hand, Brandt didn’t look too convinced.
    “You know I’m going to rip the hell out of the floor doing that, right?” Brandt asked. “I don’t know if Marie will be even able to taxi over what’s left.”
    Jason slapped Brandt on the shoulder.
    “I believe in you, buddy,” Jason said.
    Brandt had the distinct impression he also heard, Figure out a way, or we’re screwed.
    Pridament summoned Mjolner from the Veil. A thin bolt of lightning blasted from the top of the hammer, striking the top center of the door.
    Pridament pushed closer to the door. White sparks skipped from the surface, glowing white and orange beneath the lightning’s assault. He cut the beam down the door at a slow, steady pace. When the bolt started skimming the floor, Pridament ceased the flow.
    “All yours,” he said.
    Brandt moved to where he faced the center of the door head on. In some places, it had fractured beneath the heat of Pridament’s bolt. The few places where it remained intact still showed substantial melting and sizzled.
    Brandt shook his arms loose and cracked his neck side to side.
    Don’t fuck up the floor, don’t fuck up the floor, don’t fuck up…
    He spread his arms wide, wiggling his fingers like he was gathering puppet strings in preparation for a performance. He rose his hands upward, gathering concrete from the floor on the far side of the hanger. When he figured he had enough, he slapped his hands together. An earthquake rumble of concrete roared from opposite sides and massed together ten feet in front of the door. Brandt angled his hands, mimicking a wedge, with his finger tips forming the pointed end. When the concrete followed his form, he shoved forward. The wedge mimicked his motion, slamming against the door, jamming into the weakened metal which screamed at the assault. He wiggled his fingers, trying to squeeze the point of the concrete wedge deeper, so he could get a grip on the edges of the door.
    Now.
    Brandt threw his arms open, feeling strain and beads of sweat pouring down his back as though he were trying to tear open the door with his hands.
    The concrete was slower to part than Brandt’s arms. The sections of the door howled in protest, a shriek loud and high pitched—an auditory assault worse than fingernails on blackboards.
    He couldn’t tear the door straight apart. Aside from it creating problems as to where the metal would go, it also meant he would have to keep the wall of concrete its full height the entire time he pushed the door apart. That would’ve destroyed the floor, which would then wreck the landing struts on the jet, which meant their escape would be pointless. Even if the struts held for lift off—which they probably wouldn’t—they’d never be able to land. But by angling the way he tore the door, he could gradually decrease the concrete resources he needed, letting the excess drop and smooth on the floor. When it was all done, he had a hole large enough for the jet and a floor—even if not perfect— good enough to roll over.
    Jason grabbed Brandt before his weakened legs gave