Chapter 63 - The Barricade at Mile Marker 9
The cedar timberline swallowed the road ten miles south of the county seat. The morning sun was a pale smear behind the storm clouds gathering over the Blue Ridge, casting the forest into an unnatural, sickly twilight.
Miller slowed the vehicle down to forty miles per hour. Ahead, where the state highway narrowed into the private access road leading up to Black Oak Ridge, two county sheriff cruisers were parked bumper-to-bumper across both lanes.
Four men in standard brown uniforms stood outside the vehicles, but their tactical vests were unmarked, their assault rifles held at the low-ready position.
"Those aren't Cedar County deputies," Miller said, easing her foot off the gas and letting the Suburban coast toward the blockade. "Sheriff Henderson was picked up by our agents an hour ago in Hampton. Those are Sterling’s state executive security detail, wearing local colors."
"Can we push through?" Thomas asked, reaching under his coat.
"The Suburban is armored against handguns, not against .308 armor-piercing rounds," Miller answered. "If they open fire at thirty yards, the engine block is toast. June, get down on the floorboards."
"No," I said, leaning forward between the front bucket seats. "They don't want a firefight on a public highway if they can avoid it. They think we’re still in Norfolk dealing with Eleanor’s arrest. They’re expecting a courier with the court injunction."
I grabbed Miller’s federal badge from the dash and pinned it to my lapel.
"Thomas, keep the dash camera running and stream the feed directly to the Department of Justice field server in Richmond. If they raise a barrel, their faces are on federal record."
Miller pulled the vehicle to a halt ten yards from the cruisers. The lead man stepped forward, tapping the flat of his palm against his holster. His face was weathered, scarred across the jawline, his eyes completely dead behind polarized aviators.
"Road’s closed, folks," he yelled over the idling rumble of the cruisers. "Downed high-voltage line three miles up. State police are rerouting all traffic back to Route 29."
Miller rolled her window down two inches. "I’m Special Agent Miller, Federal Asset Recovery. I have a federal preservation order for Black Oak Sanctuary. Clear the road immediately."
The man didn't blink. He took half a step back, his hand resting on the receiver of his carbine. "I don't care if you're the Pope, lady. My orders come from the Governor's office. Emergency executive declaration. Active chemical leak risk from an unmapped well on the Holloway property. No one passes."
"Look at the timer, Agent," I whispered from the backseat.
*01:52:08.*
"He’s stalling," Thomas muttered. "They’re running the clock."
"Step out of the vehicle, driver," the man ordered, his voice sharpening. "Hands on the wheel. Both of you."
"Miller," I said, my voice ice. "The left ditch is graded limestone. There's a drainage culvert twenty yards out. If you hit it at fifty, the suspension will hold."
"You sure about that, farm girl?" Miller murmured, her right foot hovering over the pedal.
"I grew up racing Arthur’s farm trucks through these ditches to get away from Claire's tantrums," I said. "Hit the gas."
Miller slammed the accelerator to the floor. The heavy Suburban lurched forward, its twin-turbo engine screaming. The fake deputy had half a second to dive sideways as Miller wrenched the wheel hard left, throwing the heavy truck down into the gravel embankment. The suspension groaned, metal shrieking against limestone boulders, but the four-wheel drive bit into the mud and threw us past the barricade, spraying a rooster-tail of red clay across the cruisers' windshields.
Behind us, three rounds cracked through the morning mist, one tearing through the rear tailgate and embedding itself in the headrest between Thomas and me.
May you like
"Hold on!" Miller roared, yanking the steering wheel right to climb back onto the haul road. We cleared the crest, our tires spinning wildly on wet asphalt, and vanished into the winding canopy of Black Oak.
***
