Chapter 11 - The Road to Route 15
Within twenty minutes, Miller's truck was flying down the interstate at ninety miles an hour, emergency flashers strobing against the gray concrete highway. Brooke was riding shotgun, relaying real-time updates from state police dispatch, while I sat in the rear, checking the action on my service sidearm and securing my tactical vest.
"The ambush was professional," Brooke reported, her eyes glued to her tablet. "Two blacked-out Suburbans boxed the prison transport van near the Catoctin Mountain pass. High-caliber armor-piercing rounds through the engine block. The driver and guard were neutralized at point-blank range. Daniel Cole was pulled out of the cage."
"They didn't break him out to save him," Miller stated, his voice gravelly and certain as he wove through heavy commuter traffic. "If Daniel gave them fake identities that are now being scrutinized by the FBI and the Department of Defense, he’s not an asset anymore. He’s a liability that needs to be permanently erased before he can testify."
"Exactly," I said, teeth grinding together. "Daniel thought he was playing chess with small-town politicians. He didn't realize he was dealing with predators who clean up loose ends with a shovel in the woods."
"Dispatch tracked a burner cell phone signal pinging off a cell tower near the old limestone quarry three miles north of the crash site," Brooke said, zooming in on a satellite map. "It’s abandoned. Dense woods, gravel pits, no civilian traffic."
"Hold on," Miller warned, slamming his foot down on the accelerator. "We’re cutting through the old logging trail."
The heavy truck bounced violently as Miller tore off the paved road onto a hidden dirt track, tree branches whipping against the windshield like gunfire. Through the dense canopy of bare trees, a column of thick black smoke rose into the sky half a mile ahead.
"They're burning the transport vehicle," I said, clicking my seatbelt off and chambering a round. "Miller, drop me fifty yards before the tree line. Brooke, stay with the vehicle and coordinate the state tactical team. Under no circumstances do you enter that clearing alone."
"Understood," Brooke replied, her face pale but resolute. "Be careful, Rebecca. If these are cartel fixers, they don't care about rules of engagement."
"Neither do I," I said.
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The truck skidded to a halt in the deep mud beneath a canopy of hemlocks. I jumped from the door, low to the ground, moving with silent, predatory precision through the wet underbrush toward the smoke.
***