Chapter 34 - Black Ice and Steel
The bridge was a single-lane truss structure built of rusting iron and rotting timber, suspended forty feet above a churning, ice-choked gorge. Directly in the center sat an armored Ural tactical truck, mounted with a roof-mounted heavy machine gun.
A man stepped out of the passenger side of the Ural, wearing a heavy charcoal wool greatcoat over tactical fatigues. He wasn't wearing a mask. He had graying temples, a scar slicing vertically through his left eyebrow, and the posture of an elite officer.
It was General Robert Henderson—the very man who had signed my promotion to Colonel two years ago. The "loyal patriot" who sat on the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
"He's the Architect," I breathed.
"Maya, the bridge is blocked! Stop the car!" Clara cried, peeking out from under the Kevlar vest, clutching her bandaged wrist to her chest.
"Close your eyes, baby," I said.
I didn't hit the brakes. I floored the accelerator.
The speedometer needle climbed: sixty, sixty-five, seventy. The damaged engine screamed in protest, radiator fluid spraying across the windshield, turning the wipers into smeared tracks of boiling antifreeze.
Henderson raised a heavy megaphone to his lips. *"Maya! You are out of moves! Bring me the child and the key, and I will ensure your mother receives top-tier palliative care. Defy me, and I turn this entire bridge into a slaughterhouse!"*
"He thinks I'm negotiating," I hissed through clenched teeth.
I reached down to the center console, where I had rigged two military-grade thermite canisters salvaged from my emergency kit, wired to the 12-volt auxiliary cigarette lighter plug.
"Mother, hold Clara tight. When we hit, do not let go of the door handles!"
At fifty yards, the gunner atop the Ural opened fire. Heavy .50-caliber rounds ripped through the air like freight trains. The first slug punched through the Suburban’s engine block, instantly seizing two cylinders. The second round shattered the windshield, spraying glass diamonds across my face, slicing my cheek open.
At twenty yards, I shoved the thermite activator into the socket and wrenched the steering wheel directly toward the iron support cables on the right side of the bridge.
"Now!" I screamed.
Instead of ramming the Ural head-on, our Suburban struck the concrete curb and launched into a violent slide, clipping the rear axle of their tactical truck. The kinetic energy was catastrophic. The impact sheared the bolts holding the ancient bridge railing.
As the Suburban spun, I reached out through the shattered driver's window and hurled the second thermite grenade directly into the open driver’s cabin of the Ural.
A brilliant, two-thousand-degree chemical inferno erupted instantly inside the Russian truck. Screams of agony tore through the winter air as the vehicle's ammunition cache began to cook off in a staccato chorus of explosions.
May you like
Our Suburban violently slammed to a halt, teetering precariously over the jagged abyss where the bridge railing had been torn away. The front two wheels hung out over empty air, forty feet above the jagged ice below.
***
