Chapter 13 - The Ambush on Interstate 80
Z
The rain beat down relentlessly against the reinforced windshield of the federal transport convoy. Ethan sat inside the steel-caged rear compartment of the lead armored van, his legs shackled to the welded floor mounts and his hands secured in heavy steel cuffs. Despite the cold metal against his wrists, a manic, smug smirk was plastered across his face.
His father’s corrupt attorney had slipped him a coded message during a legal consultation two days earlier: Look for the black armored SUVs at Mile Marker 42.
Ethan genuinely believed that within the hour, he would be boarding a private Gulfstream jet chartered for a non-extradition country in South America, leaving his ruined sister, his disgraced name, and his criminal records behind him forever.
At 6:14 a.m., as the convoy rounded a secluded bend flanked by dense pine forest near the Pennsylvania border, three unmarked black utility trucks suddenly swerved across the highway, deploying heavy spike strips across the asphalt.
The federal transport van ground to a screeching, simulated halt.
Four masked men clad in tactical combat gear leaped out of the black trucks, brandishing suppressed automatic rifles. Their leader strode toward the rear doors of the transport van, shouting through a megaphone: "Step out of the vehicle and surrender the prisoner, or we will breach with thermite!"
Ethan let out a triumphant howl inside the cage. "I'm out! You hear me, you federal bastards? I’m out! Claire didn't win! Nobody touches the golden boy!"
The heavy steel rear doors of the van clicked, unlocked, and swung slowly outward.
Ethan’s triumphant grin instantly froze into a mask of pure terror.
Instead of two terrified county transport guards, the interior of the van was completely occupied by six heavily armed operators from the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, their tactical laser sights instantly painting red dots across the chests of the four mercenary attackers.
Simultaneously, four armored SWAT BearCats crashed through the tree line on both flanks of the highway, trapping the mercenary trucks in a textbook tactical encirclement.
"FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND GET ON THE GROUND! DROP THEM NOW!"
The mercenary leader hesitated for half a second before realizing their communications were jammed and their offshore bank accounts had failed to confirm payment. The four mercenaries dropped their weapons onto the wet pavement and fell to their knees with their hands behind their heads.
Agent Daniel Reeves stepped out from the second command vehicle, walking calmly toward the back of the transport van where Ethan was hyperventilating, his face pressed against the steel mesh partition.
"Looking for a ride, Ethan?" Reeves asked calmly, pulling out a fresh set of maximum-security black-box cuffs.
"Where... where is the money?" Ethan stammered, his eyes bulging in wild, uncomprehending shock. "My father paid thirty-five million! The private jet was waiting!"
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"Your father’s thirty-five million was seized by Claire three hours ago," Reeves told him with cold amusement. "And because your escape attempt involved armed automatic weapons and interstate highway sabotage, your classification has been upgraded to a Level-Four Domestic Terrorist risk. You won't even be seeing the general population at Florence, Ethan. You're heading straight for the subterranean isolation wing. No windows. No visitors. Twenty-three hours a day in a concrete box."
Ethan began to scream, thrashing violently against his chains, weeping and vomiting on the floor of the cage as the Marshals slammed the heavy steel doors shut, sealing him into absolute, permanent darkness.
