Chapter 17 - The Saboteur’s Hand
The storm had returned with violent intensity as our SUV tore down the narrow, winding blacktop of Route 9, heading toward the dark, heavily wooded hills of Blackwood Ridge. Rain fell in thick sheets, hammering against the windshield so hard the wipers could barely clear the glass.
Behind us, two unmarked federal law enforcement vehicles followed close, their hidden red and blue emergency lights flashing through the dense fog.
My phone rested in my lap, displaying a real-time satellite map of the terrain ahead. Blackwood Ridge was an abandoned industrial timber property, isolated from major highways, featuring a small two-thousand-foot paved runway originally built for corporate prop planes.
"How far?" Reid asked, his eyes glued to the treacherous road as he steered through sharp turns.
"Four miles," I replied, my voice hoarse from crying. "Reid... what if they are already on the plane? What if we're too late?"
"We aren't too late," Reid said, his voice absolute, unyielding, and iron-forged. "Sarah doesn't know we know about the Blackwood runway. She thinks we’re still stuck at the courthouse processing the shock."
Suddenly, the front left tire of our SUV made a loud, metallic popping sound.
The vehicle violently jerked to the left, tires losing traction on the slick asphalt as we skidded toward the metal guardrail bordering a fifty-foot drop into the ravine. Reid slammed his foot on the brake with practiced precision, pumping the pedal while pumping the steering wheel to counter the spin. The SUV hit the guardrail with a deafening screech of scraping steel before spinning twice and grinding to a halt across both lanes.
The engine sputtered and died.
"Out! Get out!" Reid shouted, unbuckling his seatbelt and shoving his door open against the howling wind.
I threw my door open, stumbling into the freezing rain. The two federal vehicles behind us slammed on their brakes, their tires screaming as they stopped just yards from our wrecked frame.
Reid ran to our front tire. A heavy steel caltrop—a four-pointed spike designed to destroy vehicle tires—was embedded deep in our rubber tread.
"They spiked the road," the lead federal agent shouted, stepping out of his vehicle with his firearm drawn. "They knew we would take Route 9!"
"It was a trap," I gasped, looking up at the forested ridge rising into the storm clouds above us. "Sarah had someone drop spikes along the approach road to buy time!"
"Agent Miller!" Reid shouted at the lead officer. "Give me your keys! Your tires are intact!"
"Sir, standard protocol requires us to wait for local tactical units—"
"My two-year-old son is on that tarmac!" Reid roared, stepping directly into Agent Miller’s face, his posture terrifying in its intensity. "Give me the keys now or I’m taking the truck!"
Agent Miller looked into Reid’s eyes, saw the unwavering resolve of a father, and threw him the remote key fob. "Follow behind us! Do not engage until we secure the perimeter!"
We scrambled into the heavy federal SUV, Reid slamming the gas pedal to the floorboards. The heavy 4x4 engine roared as we bypassed our disabled vehicle, tearing through the final two miles of winding mountain track.
Through the tree line ahead, the bright halogen floodlights of the Blackwood airfield cut through the rain.
And above the sound of the howling wind, we heard the distinct, high-pitched whine of a twin-engine turboprop spinning its propellers to life.
"They're taxiing!" I screamed, pointing through the trees.
On the dark runway ahead, a sleek six-passenger aircraft was slowly wheeling out from a wooden hangar, its landing lights piercing the black rain like two golden spears. Near the boarding steps, a figure in a yellow raincoat was holding a small bundle wrapped tightly in a blue blanket.
It was Leo.
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"Reid!" I shrieked.
Reid didn't slow down. He steered the heavy SUV off the paved road, crashing through the chain-link perimeter fence with a violent crunch of metal, driving the vehicle straight onto the open tarmac.
