Chapter 8 - The Chase on Interstate 87
The revelation that Vanessa was still alive—and currently being smuggled across state lines toward the Canadian border—ignited a desperate, high-stakes race against time. Agent Miller didn't waste a single second. Within moments of securing Dominic Cruz in the back of a tactical transport unit, our convoy roared back onto Route 9, burning rubber as we sped toward the northbound entrance of Interstate 87.
"All units, be advised! Target vehicle is a black, heavily armored Ford Transit van, license plate obscured, moving northbound on I-87 approaching Mile Marker 112," Agent Miller barked into his command radio, his knuckles white as he gripped the dashboard of our speeding SUV. "We have reason to believe the hostage, Vanessa Hayes, is secured inside. Proceed with extreme caution, but do not let them cross the border!"
I sat in the passenger seat, gripping the edges of my tactical vest so tightly my fingers ached. My mind raced in a thousand directions. Vanessa was alive. Injured, terrified, and captive, but alive. I thought of Noah waiting safely back at the command post with my parents, and I silently promised him that I would bring his aunt back home.
"How far to the border?" I asked, my voice cutting sharply through the roar of the engine and rushing wind.
"At our current speed, we'll hit the Port of Entry at Champlain in roughly forty minutes," Agent Miller replied, his eyes locked on the dark, rain-slicked highway stretching endlessly ahead of us. "If they reach Canadian customs before we intercept them, jurisdiction shifts, and getting her back legally becomes an international nightmare. We have to stop them before the border."
As if responding to our prayers, the radio hissed with static. “Lead car to Command! Visual confirmed! Black Transit van spotted matching description, weaving aggressively through civilian traffic two miles ahead near the Corinth exit!”
"Step on it!" Miller yelled to our driver.
Our SUV surged forward, its engine roaring like a wounded beast as we crested a steep hill and caught sight of the fleeing van weaving recklessly between semi-trucks in the northbound lanes. The rain began to fall harder, slicking the asphalt with dangerous sheets of water, but our driver didn't ease off the accelerator.
We closed the distance rapidly. Within minutes, our cruiser pulled directly alongside the left flank of the armored black van. Through the rain-streaked tinted windows, I could make out the menacing silhouette of a driver gripping the wheel, and in the passenger seat, another operative turning to look at us with cold, dead eyes.
"They're going to try to run us off the road!" Agent Miller shouted. "Brace yourselves!"
Suddenly, the side door of the van slid open, and an armed operative raised a suppressed submachine gun, leveling it directly at our windshield.
Clack-clack-clack!
Bullets shattered our side mirror and peppered the armored door panels with deafening cracks. Glass sprayed across the cabin, but our driver kept his nerve, swerving sharply and ramming our SUV’s heavy reinforced bumper directly into the side panel of the van with a sickening metal-on-metal screech.
Sparks flew in a brilliant, fiery arc across the dark interstate highway as the two heavy vehicles ground against each other at eighty miles per hour.
"Agent Miller!" I yelled over the din of screeching tires and gunfire. "We need to disable their engine, or they're going to cross the border!"
Miller didn't hesitate. He rolled down his bullet-riddled window, leaned half his body out into the freezing rain and wind, and raised his service rifle. Taking steady aim despite the violent swaying of the vehicle, he squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession.
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Pop-pop-pop!
The rear-right tire of the armored van shredded instantly into ribbons of smoking rubber. The driver lost control, fishtailing wildly across all three lanes of the interstate before spinning out completely, crashing hard into the concrete center divider, and coming to a smoking, crumpled halt.
