Chapter 14 - The Ambush at Grandfather Mountain
Z
The wind along the Blue Ridge Parkway howled like a wounded animal as midnight approached. Thick fog rolled off the granite cliffs of Grandfather Mountain, reducing visibility to less than twenty feet beneath the yellow glow of my SUV’s high beams.
I sat in the driver’s seat of my father’s old four-wheel-drive truck, the heavy leather ledger resting on the passenger seat beside me. But behind the rotted 1998 paperwork, embedded invisibly within the hollowed-out spine of the book, was a military-grade GPS transponder and a covert audio bug broadcasting directly to Vance’s tactical strike team.
Vance and six federal marshals were positioned two miles down the mountain road in unmarked pursuit vehicles, running blackout lights and thermal imaging drones high above the cloud layer.
"Thermal drone has a heat signature at the main overlook pavilion," Vance’s voice whispered through my encrypted earpiece. "One civilian sitting in a wicker chair—looks like Ruth. Two armed thermal signatures flanking the perimeter. No sign of the primary vehicle yet."
"Copy that," I whispered back. "I'm pulling onto the gravel turnout now."
I drove the truck onto the wide, rocky viewing platform overlooking the pitch-black abyss of the Linville Valley. My headlights illuminated the stone pavilion. Sitting in the center, wrapped in a thick wool blanket and shivering from the freezing mountain mist, was Aunt Ruth.
Standing ten feet behind her, his hands buried inside the pockets of a tailored wool overcoat, was a tall, silver-haired man. He had cold, predatory eyes and the immaculate posture of an ex-intelligence officer.
I shifted into park, stepped out into the freezing wind, and held the ledger high in my left hand.
"Let her walk to the truck," I shouted over the wind. "The ledger is yours."
The silver-haired man smiled thinly, stepping forward into the light. "First, place the book on the hood of your vehicle and step back three paces, Ms. Vance. We don't negotiate like amateurs."
I took a deep breath, walked to the front of the truck, set the heavy volume onto the steel hood, and took three slow steps backward, keeping my hands visible.
The man whistled once. The second operative—the diver from the boathouse—emerged from the tree line, grabbed Ruth by the arm, and shoved her forward toward my truck. Ruth stumbled across the gravel, her face pale and streaked with tears, but uninjured.
I caught her in my arms, pulling her behind the reinforced engine block of the truck. "Are you okay, Aunt Ruth?"
"I'm so sorry, Elena," Ruth sobbed, clinging to my jacket. "They had keys to the back door... they knew everything..."
Across the clearing, the silver-haired man walked over to the hood of my truck, picked up the ledger, and opened the front cover. He produced a small ultraviolet scanner from his pocket, inspecting the watermark on the 1998 notarized deed.
"Magnificent," he said, looking at me across the hood. "Diane Mercer sends her warmest regards from Aliceville. She wanted me to tell you that in the game of dynasties, the first generation builds, the second preserves, and the outsiders get crushed."
"Diane is dying in a federal cell," I replied coldly. "And you just committed federal kidnapping."
The man laughed, pulling a suppressed automatic pistol from inside his coat. "Who is going to file the report, Ms. Vance? A dead forensics analyst and a frail old woman who accidentally drove off a mountain cliff in the fog?"
Before he could raise the muzzle, the night sky shattered with a blinding flash of white light.
FLASHBANG.
A thunderous concussive boom echoed off the mountain cliffs, followed instantly by the deafening roar of a federal tactical megaphone: "FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! GET ON THE GROUND NOW!"
Three black tactical trucks surged over the ridge, their high-intensity floodlights turning the misty overlook into blinding broad daylight.
The operative by the trees fired two wild shots into the fog before a sniper’s non-lethal beanbag round struck him squarely in the chest, dropping him to the gravel with a choked gasp.
The silver-haired man spun around, raising his weapon toward the advancing marshals, but Vance moved faster. Emerging from the brush at the pavilion flank, Vance fired two clean rounds into the man’s right shoulder.
The pistol flew from his grip, clattering across the wet stones, and the silver-haired leader collapsed onto the hood of my truck, groaning as two federal agents tackled him to the ground and snapped titanium cuffs around his wrists.
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Vance walked up, kicking the fallen pistol away, breathing heavily in the freezing mountain air. He looked at the groaning operative, then turned to me with a fierce grin.
"Target secured," Vance said. "And we just intercepted the encrypted comms on his satellite phone. We have the direct line to the corrupt warden inside Diane's prison."
