Chapter 66 - THE MIDNIGHT AMBUSH ON INTERSTATE 87
The St. Claire industrial iron foundry had been abandoned for twenty years, a towering rusted monolith rising along the dark banks of the Hudson River just off Interstate 87.
Julian reloaded his tactical carbine, slamming the thirty-round magazine into the well with a violent slap of his palm. He sat in the passenger seat of Arthur’s unmarked cruiser as the detective pushed the V8 engine to its absolute limit, the speedometer needle vibrating past one hundred and ten miles per hour.
"The foundry's security grid went live twenty minutes ago," Arthur yelled over the roar of the engine, his eyes fixed on the snow-blind highway. "The power substation on the river just spiked by four hundred kilowatts. Charles isn't just hiding there, Julian—he’s running an industrial blast furnace."
"He’s destroying the physical records," Julian said, his voice cold, devoid of fear, filled only with the lethal clarity of a son who had come to execute his father. "The bearer bonds, the sovereign charters, the original adoption papers. If he burns them in an eighty-ton blast furnace, the federal court can never trace the bloodline."
Suddenly, high-intensity xenon beams exploded through the rear window of the cruiser.
Two matte-black Ford F-350 dually trucks, fitted with reinforced steel cow-catchers and blackened windows, surged out of the blizzard behind them. Without warning, the lead truck slammed directly into the cruiser’s rear bumper, sending the vehicle violently fishtailing across the icy lanes.
"HOLD ON!" Arthur screamed, wrestling the steering wheel as the cruiser spun three hundred and sixty degrees across the black ice.
Julian didn't hesitate. He kicked open the passenger door mid-spin, leaned half his body out into the sub-zero hurricane, and raised his carbine with both hands. The red-dot reticle found the radiator grille of the pursuing truck, and Julian squeezed the trigger in controlled, three-round bursts.
The armor-piercing rounds punched through the truck's engine block, sparking brilliant plumes of orange fire beneath the hood. The lead truck violently veered sideways, flipping end-over-end across the highway median and detonating in a massive fireball that lit the midnight snowdrifts in violent crimson.
May you like
But the second truck didn't slow down. It surged forward through the smoke, its cow-catcher ramming the cruiser’s driver side, driving Arthur’s car directly toward the guardrail suspended two hundred feet above the freezing black waters of the Hudson River.
***
