Chapter 9 - The Ridge Road Ambush
The mountain pass along Route 9 was pitch black, carved between steep rock faces and sheer drop-offs into the gorge below.
"They’re trying to run us off the shoulder!" Uncle Ray shouted, fighting the steering wheel as the first black SUV slammed into our rear bumper with a deafening crunch of metal.
The truck fish-tailed, the rear tires skidding over wet gravel at the edge of the cliff.
"Leo, get on the floorboards! Cover your head!" I screamed, shielding his body with mine.
The second impact was harder. The SUV pulled up along our left side, attempting to pit-maneuver the heavy truck into the rocky embankment. Through the tinted window of the pursuing vehicle, I caught a glimpse of the driver—one of Miller’s deputies, his teeth clenched, wearing night-vision tactical goggles.
BZZZZ.
The burner phone in my pocket vibrated against my hip.
I pulled it out with trembling fingers. A scheduled text message from Rachel’s cloud account appeared on the screen, triggered by the timestamp: 01:30 AM.
The message contained five words: OLD TIMBER BRIDGE. PULL THE PIN.
"Ray!" I yelled over the screaming wind and squealing tires. "The old timber logging road at Mile Marker 14! Turn there!"
"That bridge has been condemned for five years, Sarah!" Ray yelled back, blood dripping into his eye from a cut on his forehead. "It won't hold the truck!"
"Rachel built the timber survey on that bridge three months ago!" I screamed. "Trust her! Turn now!"
Ray hit the brakes hard. The F-250 slid forty feet sideways through the mud, missing the guardrail by inches, and whipped right down an overgrown dirt path into the dense forest.
May you like
The two pursuing SUVs overshot the turn, their tires smoking on the wet asphalt before slamming their brakes to reverse.
Up ahead in the beam of our headlights sat the old wooden logging bridge, spanning an eighty-foot ravine over the roaring river below.
