Chapter 15 - The Ambush at Cold Spring
Z
The blizzard was blinding as our two-vehicle convoy navigated the steep, winding curves of Route 9 through the Hudson Highlands near Cold Spring. The heavy snow swirled like white static in our headlights, reducing visibility to less than thirty feet.
Lena drove the lead tactical SUV with laser focus, while Marcus monitored the GPS tracking beacon we had remotely linked to the private medical transport.
“They’re two miles ahead of us, descending toward the river crossing,” Marcus shouted over the roar of the heater. “The air-ambulance helicopter at Stewart is already spooling its engines on the tarmac. If they cross the Bear Mountain Bridge, we lose our window to box them in!”
“State Police have road spikes set up at the southern toll plaza,” Lena said, gripping the wheel as the SUV skidded slightly on a patch of black ice before gripping the road. “We force them into the scenic turnout overlooking the gorge and execute the emergency custody warrant.”
Suddenly, out of the blinding whiteout on our right flank, a pair of high-beam halogen lights flared directly into our cabin.
A heavy armored pickup truck with reinforced steel bull-bars accelerated violently from a concealed service road, slamming brutally into our rear quarter panel.
The SUV spun in a terrifying 180-degree slide across the frozen asphalt. Lena fought the steering wheel, pumping the anti-lock brakes with expert precision, bringing our vehicle to a violent halt against the heavy steel guardrail just inches from the sheer drop into the frozen Hudson River gorge.
“Ambush!” Lena yelled, drawing her Glock. “Stay down, Evelyn! Marcus, lock the doors!”
Through the cracked, snow-caked windshield, we saw the armored pickup reverse and position itself across the roadway, completely blocking our forward path. Two men in tactical snow gear exited the vehicle, raising automatic shotguns.
Victoria Vance-Holloway was not just trying to outrun the law; she was cleaning the board in the middle of a blizzard.
“They’re shooting out our tires!” Marcus cried as heavy buckshot shattered the rear windows, showering safety glass across the leather seats.
“Not today,” Lena growled.
She slammed the SUV into reverse, backed away ten yards, then shifted into low gear and activated our vehicle’s high-intensity police strobe bar and roof-mounted sirens.
At that exact moment, the deafening thrum of twin turbine rotors shook the mountain air.
From above the tree line, a New York State Police tactical helicopter descended through the snowstorm, its million-candlepower Nightsun spotlight pinning the two gunmen in blinding white light.
“State Police Tactical Unit! Drop your weapons and get on the ground! Drop them now!” the helicopter’s public address system thundered down the gorge.
Sirens wailed from behind us as four marked State Police cruisers slid through the snow, flanking the ambush vehicle and completely boxing in the attackers. Outnumbered and illuminated by the federal tactical spotlight, the two mercenaries dropped their shotguns into the snow and raised their hands.
Lena didn't waste a second. “Keep them secured!” she shouted to the troopers as she swung our SUV around the roadblock and accelerated down the mountain pass toward the river turnout.
A half-mile ahead, the private medical ambulance had pulled over, its driver panicked by the sound of approaching sirens and helicopter blades.
Lena cut in front of the ambulance, blocking its path, while two State Police cruisers sealed the rear.
Lena and I stepped out into the freezing wind, weapons drawn by the troopers as they surrounded the transport doors. Lena yanked the rear doors open.
Inside, Dr. Felix Thorne sat trembling, clutching a medical briefcase, while Walter Vance lay in a transport stretcher, hooked to a low-dose intravenous drip, his eyes fluttering with returning consciousness as his nurse, Mrs. Gable, shielded him.
Behind them, seated in the corner in her pristine camel-hair coat, was Victoria Vance-Holloway.
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She stared at me through the open ambulance doors, her expensive facade finally cracking into raw, desperate fury.
“You’re out of moves, Victoria,” I said, the freezing snow settling on my shoulders as I held up the contingency trust documents. “The State Police have your mercenaries, the Attorney General has frozen your flight clearance, and I have the master key. Step out of the vehicle.”
