Chapter 16 - THE AMBUSH ON ROUTE 9
The explosion shook the subterranean tunnel so violently that chunks of dried limestone collapsed from the arched ceiling, raining dust and pebbles down on Nora and Ethan.
Nora fell to her knees, burying Iris beneath her torso to shield her from the debris. The concussive blast resonated through her teeth, her ears ringing with a high, deadening whine. Through the thick floor above, the unmistakable roar of the entire farmhouse collapsing into a raging inferno vibrated through the earth.
"Dad..." Nora choked out, her forehead pressed against the freezing dirt floor. "Dad!"
"Nora, get up!" Ethan’s voice was ragged, choked with dust and tears, but his grip on her shoulder was relentless. "We have to move! The foundation is going to collapse into the tunnel! Nora, look at Iris! Look at your baby!"
The sharp, instinctive cry of Iris cut through the fog of Nora’s grief like a scalpel. The infant was coughing from the fine silt in the air, her tiny arms flailing against the wool blanket.
Nora forced herself to her feet. The pure, unadulterated instinct of a mother took over, freezing the sorrow in her chest into solid, cold survival. "Which way?"
"Straight ahead! Keep the light down, follow the iron pipes!" Ethan propelled her forward into the pitch-black corridor.
They ran through the damp darkness for what felt like miles, their breath coming in burning, desperate gasps. The tunnel sloped upward, the air turning fresher until the sound of rushing rainwater echoed ahead. Ethan threw his shoulder against a rusted iron grate choked with wild blackberry brambles, bursting through into the torrential rain of the Route 9 ditch.
They scrambled up the muddy embankment into the freezing downpour. Behind them, two miles across the rolling hills, the sky was stained a violent, apocalyptic crimson where Daniel Montgomery’s house had stood for half a century.
Parked beneath the weeping willows of the abandoned Baptist church across the highway was Daniel’s backup—a dented, unpainted 1998 Chevy Suburban he kept hidden behind the parish cemetery for emergencies. Ethan pulled the spare key from a magnetic lockbox under the wheel well, wrenched the door open, and shoved Nora and Iris into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel.
The engine sputtered, coughed, and then roared to life with a deep, throaty rumble. Ethan dropped the transmission into gear, sprayed gravel forty feet into the night, and launched the heavy vehicle onto the slick asphalt of Route 9, speeding north toward the interstate.
"Where are we going?" Nora asked, her knuckles white as she buckled Iris’s car seat into the center console, checking the child’s breathing every three seconds. "They own the local police, Ethan! If Julian has the board, we can't go to the city!"
"We’re going to the only person who hates Julian more than we do," Ethan said, his face illuminated by the green glow of the dashboard gauges. His knuckles were bleeding where he had scraped them against the tunnel walls. "We’re going to Bedford."
"The psychiatric wing?" Nora gasped. "Your mother?"
Before Ethan could answer, high-intensity xenon beams exploded in the rearview mirror.
A heavy, custom-armored Mercedes SUV surged out of the darkness behind them, closing the distance at eighty miles an hour. It didn't flash its sirens. It didn't honk. It hit the Suburban’s rear bumper with a devastating, metal-crunching impact that sent the truck fishtailing across the rain-slicked highway.
"Hold on!" Ethan roared, wrestling the steering wheel as the tires shrieked against the wet pavement.
The Mercedes pulled alongside them on the driver's side. The tinted passenger window slid down, revealing a man in tactical gear leveling a pneumatic cable launcher directly at the Suburban’s front axle.
"They don't want to shoot us!" Ethan realized with terrifying clarity. "They’re trying to flip the car! They want it to look like an accident!"
The Mercedes rammed them again, the sound of tearing sheet metal screeching over the howling wind. The Suburban's right tires caught the soft shoulder of the road. Ahead, the highway narrowed into a two-lane concrete bridge spanning the swollen, raging waters of Blackwood Gorge.
"Ethan!" Nora screamed.
Ethan didn't brake. His eyes turned feral with the reckless rage of a man who had lost his father-in-law and refused to lose his wife. Instead of swerving away from the Mercedes, Ethan slammed the steering wheel hard to the left, cutting straight into the attacker's front quarter-panel with two tons of Detroit steel.
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The impact sent both vehicles spinning out of control toward the concrete bridge abutment at ninety miles an hour.
***
