Chapter 8 - THE AMBUSH ON THE HIGHWAY
Within twenty minutes of Eleanor’s departure, our emergency secure line buzzed with a coded priority flash from federal transport command.
The armored vehicle carrying Aunt Eleanor to the private airfield in Westchester had dropped off radar near the Throgs Neck Bridge. No distress call had been issued, and the automated GPS transponder had been cleanly severed from the chassis.
"She walked right into it," Ethan said, slamming his hand down on the coffee table as we geared up in the hallway, strapping tactical vests over our clothes and checking our firearm magazines. "If she talks under interrogation, the remaining shell companies my father is trying to legitimate will be exposed to federal seizure within forty-eight hours."
"She won't talk," I said, racking the slide of my Glock with a crisp, mechanical snap. "She's too proud. But whoever is intercepting that transport isn't looking for financial records. They're looking to tie up loose ends."
"Whose loose ends?" Ethan asked, grabbing his car keys.
"Whitaker's," I replied, pulling my jacket closed over my tactical harness. "The federal indictment against him was supposed to be airtight, but his legal team filed a motion claiming classified operational overlap. If the transport team is eliminated, the chain of evidence breaks."
Within five minutes, we were in our armored SUV, tearing through the evening rush hour traffic with the emergency strobe lights flashing against the wet asphalt of the interstate. The sky overhead was bruised purple, heavy with the promise of an autumn downpour.
As we approached the approach ramp for the Throgs Neck Bridge, the traffic ahead came to a grinding, unnatural halt.
Three commercial semi-trucks had jackknifed across all four lanes, creating an impassable wall of steel and rubber. Hazard lights blinked frantically in the gathering darkness, casting erratic red glows across the damp concrete.
"Trap," Marcus, who was riding in the passenger seat of our SUV, announced immediately, lifting his rifle and chambering a round. "Standard highway bottleneck."
"Don't stop," I commanded, keeping my hands steady on the steering wheel. "Hold onto something."
Instead of slamming on the brakes, I cut the wheel hard to the right, jumping the concrete curb and plowing our heavy SUV straight through a chain-link maintenance fence, sending rusted wire and wooden posts flying in our wake. The vehicle lurched violently, scraping against a concrete bridge support before stabilizing on the service access road running parallel to the bridge.
As we skirted the bottleneck, the target vehicle came into view.
A black federal transport van was parked at a precarious angle against the outer retaining wall, its rear doors blown open by an explosive charge. Smoke billowed from the chassis, and two federal marshals lay motionless on the pavement beside the vehicle.
In the center of the clearing stood Eleanor, her ebony cane discarded on the wet asphalt, her hands zip-tied behind her back. Looming over her was a tall, heavily armored operative wearing the matte-black tactical gear of a rogue private contractor—one of Whitaker’s loyalist sleeper agents who had managed to slip through the federal dragnet.
The operative raised a suppressed pistol, aiming directly at Eleanor’s chest.
"Out of the car," I ordered, kicking my door open before the SUV had even come to a complete stop.
Marcus and I hit the pavement in a synchronized roll, our weapons raised and tracking targets before our boots had fully found traction.
"Drop the weapon!" I shouted, cutting across the wet asphalt toward the operative.
The man in black didn't hesitate. He pivoted smoothly away from Eleanor, swinging the barrel of his pistol toward us and squeezing the trigger twice.
Crack-crack.
The first bullet ricocheted off the side of our SUV with a metallic shriek. The second zipped harmlessly past my shoulder, chewing into the concrete barrier behind me.
I didn't miss a beat. I dropped to one knee, adjusted for windage and the slick, rain-slicked pavement, and fired a single, calculated shot.
The round caught the operative squarely in the shoulder armor, spinning him off balance and knocking his suppressed pistol spinning across the wet concrete. Before he could recover, Marcus closed the distance, delivering a devastating sweep kick that dropped the man face-first onto the road, followed by a swift, decisive zip-tie across his wrists.
Ethan sprinted past us, dropping to his knees beside Aunt Eleanor. He quickly sliced through the plastic ties binding her wrists with his pocketknife, hauling her upright.
"Are you hit?" Ethan asked, his voice sharp with residual adrenaline.
Eleanor coughed, her aristocratic composure cracked for the first time since I had met her. Her face was pale, her silver hair damp with rain, but her eyes flashed with a familiar, stubborn defiance.
"I don't need your gallantry, Ethan," she muttered, though she leaned heavily on his arm as he helped her toward the shelter of our SUV. "Though your timing, I must admit, was marginally less pathetic than usual."
May you like
I walked over, kicking the fallen operative’s weapon away into the grass, and knelt beside the secure communication console attached to his tactical harness. The radio was still broadcasting an open audio loop to a remote receiver downtown.
And through the static, a familiar, chilling voice was speaking.
