Chapter 27 - Ambush on Route 9
The plan to take the private helicopter from the roof of the Beacon Hill townhome was scrapped ten minutes before departure.
"Radio chatter intercepted," Miller reported, slamming his tablet onto the briefing table. "Richard’s ground reconnaissance has eyes on the Boston helipad. They have two shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile platforms positioned on top of an abandoned parking structure near Logan. If we take off from the roof, we’re a clay pigeon."
"Then we drive," I said without missing a beat. "We take the southern turnpike to Connecticut. Three armored Suburbans, staggered spacing, decoy routes."
"It's risky," Julian cautioned. "Route 9 cuts through heavily wooded sections near the state line. Perfect terrain for an ambush."
"Richard knows we’re coming for the *Valkyrie*," I replied, pulling on a black tactical windbreaker over my Kevlar vest. "He’s desperate. A desperate man commits all his pieces at once. Let him try to stop us on the road. Out in the open, we dictate the terms."
Twenty minutes later, our convoy rolled out of the subterranean garage of the Beacon Hill estate. Emily and Marcus remained inside the fortified compound under the guard of twelve heavily armed private contractors and round-the-clock state police protection. For the first time in my life, I felt the terrifying weight of leaving my family behind, but knowing they were behind ten-inch reinforced concrete walls brought a razor-sharp focus to my mind.
I rode in the middle Suburban with Julian and Miller. The sky was an ominous ceiling of bruised, purple-gray clouds, threatening a heavy blizzard as the afternoon temperatures plunged.
We cleared the Boston suburbs and hit the long, winding stretches of Route 9 through the Worcester hills. Snow began to fall in thick, swirling sheets, reducing visibility to less than fifty yards.
"Lead vehicle, report," Miller commanded into his radio headset.
*"Lead vehicle clear. Mile marker 42. Road is quiet. No civilian traffic ahead—"*
The radio cut out with a deafening screech of static.
Fifty yards ahead, at the crest of a wooded curve, the lead Suburban suddenly launched into the air.
A massive orange fireball mushroomed through the falling snow as an improvised explosive device, buried beneath the asphalt, detonated under its front axle. The multi-ton armored vehicle flipped violently onto its roof, skidding across the slush in a shower of sparks before slamming into the guardrail.
"Ambush! Ambush!" Miller roared. "Driver, hard reverse! J-turn now!"
Before the driver could throw the transmission into reverse, two heavy flatbed commercial trucks swung out from hidden logging access roads on either side of the highway, blocking our retreat like jaws of a steel vise.
From the tree line, automatic rifle fire erupted in a synchronized, deafening chorus.
High-caliber rounds cracked against the ballistic glass of our Suburban, spider-webbing the reinforced windshield but holding firm. The third Suburban behind us took immediate fire, its radiator bursting into steam as armor-piercing bullets tore into its engine block.
"Stay down!" Julian yelled, ducking as a round hit the window frame inches from his head.
I didn't duck.
All the years of swinging sledgehammers, clearing timber on the northern farm, hauling five-hundred-pound engine blocks in freezing winter sheds—all of it came together in a surge of pure, physical adrenaline. I had spent thirty-five years feeling like a ghost in the Vance household, an invisible failure.
I was done being hunted.
"Miller! Smoke out the right flank!" I shouted over the deafening rattle of impacts against our armored chassis. "They’re using the logging rise for elevation! If they get an RPG down on this roof, the armor won't save us!"
Miller looked at me, saw the absolute absence of fear in my eyes, and nodded with grim respect. He popped two high-density smoke canisters and kicked the passenger door open just enough to heave them into the snow.
A thick wall of white phosphorus smoke billowed across the highway, blinding the shooters in the tree line.
May you like
"Julian, stay in the floorboard!" I ordered.
I grabbed a short-barreled tactical shotgun from the center console rack, racked the slide with a heavy, metallic clatter, and kicked the side door wide into the freezing, smoke-filled air.
