She yanked the wheel hard to the left, slamming her reinforced steel quarter-panel directly into the pickup’s front tire. The violent pit maneuver sent a shockwave through both vehicles. The pickup’s steering arm snapped under the impact, the front wheels turned completely sideways, and the heavy truck flipped violently at eighty miles an hour. It rolled four times across the highway, exploding into a shower of sparks, shattered glass, and twisted metal before vaulting over the edge of the ravine.
The gunman never had time to pull the trigger.
One down, Dana said through gritted teeth, her voice completely devoid of adrenaline.
The Peterbilt was already adjusting. The massive truck pulled out into the empty left lane, drawing parallel to Dana’s pickup. Through the rain-slicked side glass, Marcus could see the driver. It was a man with a shaved head and a face like raw beef, his mouth twisted into a murderous grin. The driver didn’t bother using a weapon. He simply turned the twelve-foot iron monster directly toward their small truck, intending to crush them like an aluminum soda can against the cliff face.
He’s turning! Marcus shouted, pressing his back against his seat. He’s going to crush us!
Dana looked ahead through the driving rain.
Half a mile down the road, the highway crossed over the Blackwood River via a narrow, two-lane truss bridge made of rusted structural iron. At the entrance to the bridge stood a set of heavy, yellow concrete impact barriers designed to prevent oversized freight vehicles from entering the weight-restricted span.
The gap between the concrete barriers was barely eight feet wide. Dana’s truck could clear it with inches to spare.
The Peterbilt could not.
Dana didn’t tap the brakes. Instead, she matched the semi-truck’s speed, holding her position side-by-side with the charging iron giant as the bridge materialized out of the darkness and mist.
What are you doing?! Marcus yelled, terror strangling his vocal cords. We’re going to hit the abutment!
Trust Julian, Dana said quietly.
Two hundred yards from the bridge. The Peterbilt’s driver realized what she was doing. The massive truck began to brake, its air brakes hissing with deafening fury, smoke pouring from all eight rear tires as the rubber melted against the wet road.
One hundred yards.
Dana waited until the absolute last millisecond—the razor-thin edge between life and catastrophic impact. She stabbed the brake pedal with brutal force.
The sudden deceleration dropped her pickup ten feet behind the Peterbilt’s rear bumper just as the massive rig reached the mouth of the bridge.
The driver of the Peterbilt tried to swerve, but the laws of physics were absolute. Thirty tons of steel and momentum hit the solid yellow concrete barrier at eighty miles an hour.
The impact sounded like an artillery shell detonating.
The heavy iron plow crumpled into the concrete. The front axle sheared off instantly, sending the engine block tearing through the firewall into the cab. The Peterbilt’s chassis jackknifed violently, vaulting into the air, tearing through fifty feet of heavy bridge railing, and plunging headfirst into the raging black water of the river two hundred feet below.
A massive plume of white spray shot into the night sky, swallowed instantly by the roaring storm.
Dana smoothly released the brake, threaded the needle between the shattered concrete barriers, and rolled onto the iron bridge deck without a scratch on her front bumper.
Marcus sat paralyzed, his chest heaving, his mouth open, watching the dark water below churn where the massive machine had vanished. You… you killed him, he whispered.
He made his choice when he signed the payroll, Dana replied, her voice ice-cold. Look behind us.
The third vehicle—the second Ford F-350—had managed to stop before the bridge, but it wasn’t alone anymore.
Across the other side of the bridge, the highway opened up into a wide industrial valley. And waiting on the far side of the span were three black Chevrolet Suburbans, their high beams illuminating the entire bridge deck like a surgical theater.
Blocking the far exit were four men in civilian suits, backed by six heavily armed private contractors wearing tactical vests and carrying suppressed carbines.
In the center of the road, standing calmly beneath a massive black umbrella held by a bodyguard, was Richard Vance.
He was not wearing his corporate suit anymore. He wore a dark field jacket, his silver hair slicked back against his skull, holding a silver walking stick. Beside him stood Sheriff Miller, looking nervous, his service revolver drawn and pointed at the approaching truck.
Dana tapped the brakes, bringing the pickup to a smooth stop thirty yards from the barricade. The wipers continued their slow, rhythmic beat.
