Chapter 18 - THE AMBUSH AT RAVENSPOINT
The old freight tunnel ran five miles west beneath the river bluffs, leading directly into the subterranean maintenance depot of the decommissioned Ravenspoint railyard. It was a relic of the Prohibition era, built by Vincent’s grandfather to smuggle Canadian whiskey into the heart of New York.
By the time we emerged into the cold drizzle of the abandoned rail depot, Matteo had secured an unmarked, heavily armored Chevrolet Suburban. He had two fresh guards with him, their faces grim, their weapons concealed beneath heavy dark overcoats.
“The airfield is secure, Boss,” Matteo reported in a low voice, handing Vincent a fresh trench coat and two spare magazines. “We took three prisoners. Two are dead from cyanide capsules before we could question them. The third talked before he choked. Marcus didn't sell us out for money.”
Vincent stopped buttoning his coat, his eyes narrowing. “Why did he do it?”
“Julian has his grandchildren,” Matteo said grimly. “He took Marcus’s daughter and two grandkids from their home in Orlando three nights ago. Marcus was told to clear the river gate or watch them die on a live feed.”
Vincent closed his eyes for a single second, a heavy sigh escaping his chest. The brutality of Julian Sterling knew no bounds; he waged war not on soldiers, but on the families of soldiers.
“Track the Florida cell,” Vincent ordered. “Send our best extraction team to Orlando. If Marcus’s family is still breathing, bring them home. Marcus dies for treason, but his grandchildren are innocent.”
“Already done, Boss,” Matteo said.
We piled into the Suburban. I sat in the middle row, flanked by bulletproof steel and darkened privacy glass. I held Hope tightly, nursing her beneath a blanket until she finally fell into an exhausted, deep sleep. My body ached from tension, every muscle coiled like a spring.
The drive toward Chicago would take twelve agonizing hours by road, cutting through the Appalachian mountain passes. We couldn't risk commercial airports, and the private runways were crawling with Julian’s informants.
As the heavy SUV climbed into the winding, fog-choked roads of the Pennsylvania mountains, the drizzle turned into an icy sleet. The pine trees towered on either side like silent, dark sentinels.
“We’re being shadowed,” the driver said suddenly, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
Vincent leaned forward, peering through the rain-streaked rear window. Two miles back, barely visible through the twisting mountain switchbacks, two sets of high-intensity halogen headlights cut through the fog.
“They aren't closing the gap,” Matteo noted, racking the bolt of his submachine gun. “They’re herding us.”
“They’re driving us toward the gorge,” Vincent realized, his voice sharp. “Speed up. Don't let them pin us against the Ravenspoint bridge.”
The driver slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The heavy V8 engine roared, propelling the three-ton armored truck forward around a sharp hairpin curve. The tires screeched against the slick asphalt.
Then, out of the blinding fog directly ahead, a massive logging truck jackknifed across both lanes of the narrow two-lane highway, blocking the entire roadway.
“Brace!” Vincent roared, throwing his massive body across both me and the baby.
The driver slammed the brakes, turning the wheel hard into the skid. The Suburban spun violently across the black ice, smashing sideways into the steel guardrail with a deafening screech of ripping metal. The heavy vehicle shuddered, its rear wheels hanging precariously over the edge of a three-hundred-foot ravine plunging into the rocky river below.
Steam hissed from the crumpled radiator. Before the smoke could clear, the doors of the logging truck swung open.
A dozen men armed with tactical rifles poured out into the freezing sleet, forming an execution squad in the middle of the road.
And stepping out from the cab of the truck, holding a silver-plated cane and wearing an immaculate charcoal coat, was Julian Sterling.
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He raised a megaphone to his lips, his mocking voice cutting through the mountain wind:
“Vincent! Come out, dear brother-in-law! Bring the maid and the little bastard! Come out, or my men will push that truck over the edge and let the river sort out the remains!”
