Chapter 11 - The Viaduct Ambush
Sheriff Vance didn't waste time trying to convince us with empty promises; he tossed a set of heavy truck keys onto the scarred wooden table and pointed toward the back door. The rusted pickup parked in the lean-to had reinforced steel plates welded into the bed and fresh county plates, anonymous enough to blend into highway traffic. Daniel strapped the twin babies tightly against his chest within the reinforced cream-colored blanket, his bruised fingers working the buckles with practiced speed while Vance kept watch through the frosted windowpane.
"They're using a mobile relay van to bounce signals off the mountain ridge," Vance said, checking the cylinder of his service revolver before sliding it back into its worn leather holster. "If we take the state highway, we walk right into their checkpoint. We have to cross the old logging viaduct two miles north. It's steep, narrow, and unpaved, but it'll get us behind their sweep line."
I grabbed my jacket, my hands shaking as I checked the zipper over my green waist apron, which I still wore like some strange, persistent talisman of the life I had left behind in the diner alley. "What about roadblocks?" I asked, looking up at the older lawman.
"The boys paying your pursuers own half the state troopers, but they don't own the mountain patrol," Vance replied, pulling his Stetson down low. "Let's move. Now."
We piled into the rattling truck cab, Daniel wedged awkwardly in the middle with the infants cradled against his ribs, protecting them from the violent bumps as Vance threw the gearshift into reverse. The engine roared, tires spitting gravel as we fishtailed out of the clearing and onto the dark winding timber road. The canopy of pine trees blotted out the moonlight, casting jagged shadows across the dashboard.
For ten minutes, the only sound was the howling mountain wind and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the babies. Then Vance tensed, his foot hovering over the brake. Up ahead, where the logging road intersected the concrete viaduct spanning the deep rocky gorge, two black SUVs sat parked diagonally across the pavement, their high beams cutting blinding white swaths through the swirling mist. Armed figures in tactical gear moved methodically between the vehicles, weapons raised.
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"Hold onto the kids!" Vance shouted, slamming his foot down on the floorboards. Instead of stopping, he wrenched the wheel hard to the right, crashing right through a rotting wooden guardrail and sending the heavy truck careening down an old maintenance skid-track that ran parallel to the viaduct.
Sparks flew in a blinding sheet of orange as our side panels scraped against jagged concrete support pillars. Automatic gunfire erupted from above, shattering our rear window and chewing through the sheet metal inches from my head. Daniel threw his body over the infants, absorbing the shock of the violent swerves without a single cry of pain, his eyes fixed on me with fierce, unyielding resolve. Vance fought the steering wheel, blood trickling from a cut above his brow where a stray bullet had grazed the cab frame, guiding the battered truck down into the dense, forgiving darkness of the pine forest below.
