Chapter 4 - The Interceptor
The modified Chevy Suburban tore onto Interstate 95 North like a missile launching from a silo. Under the hood, a twin-turbocharged Duramax diesel engine roared with nine hundred horsepower, bypassing the factory governors with customized military-grade tuning.
Inside the darkened cab, the only illumination came from the green glow of the instrument panel and the amber backlighting of a ruggedized Panasonic Toughbook mounted to the center console.
"She’s stationary," Deacon reported from the passenger seat, his eyes glued to the telemetry updates streaming through the satellite relay. "Coordinates put her inside the main residence. Heart rate peaked at one-fifty, now plateauing at one-thirty. High distress levels."
Marcus drove with two hands firmly at the ten and two positions, his knuckles pale against the leather wrap of the steering wheel. He had not blinked in three miles. The speedometer hovered unyieldingly at one hundred and fifteen miles per hour, slicing through the dawn mist that clung to the North Carolina-Virginia border.
"Any police chatter on the bands?" Marcus asked.
Deacon adjusted the frequency dial on a digital scanner. "The county line is quiet. But you know who runs that district, Marcus. Trent's father has the county commissioners in his back pocket. Chief Miller plays golf with Richard Sterling every Saturday morning at the country club. If we get pulled over, we're not dealing with routine traffic cops; we're dealing with their private gatekeepers."
"If a cruiser lights up behind me, I'm not stopping," Marcus said. His voice was flat, devoid of bravado, completely matter-of-fact.
Deacon looked at his friend’s profile. He had seen that look only once before—during an extraction operation in a mountain valley outside Sangin, when their third squad had been surrounded by two dozen insurgents. Marcus had walked through a hail of shrapnel to drag three wounded lance corporals out of a burning armored vehicle.
"What's the plan on arrival?" Deacon asked, reaching into the footwell to pull up a heavy nylon duty bag containing tactical zip-cuffs, trauma tourniquets, and non-lethal breaching tools alongside their service sidearms.
"Plan A is I walk through the front door, I pick up my sister, and we walk out," Marcus said.
May you like
"And if Trent or his family tries to stop you?"
Marcus’s jaw set into stone. "Then God help them, Deacon. Because the Marine Corps taught me how to break every bone in the human body, and I haven't forgotten a single lesson."
