Chapter 10 - The High-Speed Ambush on Blackwood Ridge and the Predator Becoming Prey
At 5:30 AM, a heavy mountain fog clung to the winding curves of Blackwood Ridge—a treacherous two-lane mountain highway flanked by sheer rocky cliffs on one side and a five-hundred-foot ravine on the other.
A three-vehicle convoy consisting of two black Chevy Suburbans escorting a secured armored transport van navigated the steep incline at forty miles per hour.
High above the road, concealed in the pine tree line, four modified heavy-duty pickup trucks without license plates waited with their engines idling in the dark. Inside were eight heavily armed private contractors hired by Arthur Vance, equipped with high-powered rifles, tactical body armor, and thermal optics.
“Target in sight,” the lead mercenary whispered into his tactical radio. “Box them in at the hairpin turn. Terminate all occupants. Burn the transport.”
The four trucks roared out of the timber, accelerating down the mountain pass.
Two trucks slammed into the lead Suburban, forcing it off the asphalt into the rocky embankment in a shower of sparks and shattered glass. The remaining two trucks pulled alongside the armored transport van, firing high-caliber rounds directly into the engine block to disable the vehicle.
The convoy screeched to a halt, trapped in the narrow mountain corridor.
The mercenaries jumped out of their vehicles, raising their rifles and moving toward the armored van’s rear doors with incendiary charges.
“Blow the hinges! Burn everything inside!” the lead contractor yelled.
Before they could set the charges, the rear doors of the armored van exploded outward with a deafening hydraulic blast.
It wasn't panicked federal clerks inside.
It was an elite detachment of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) alongside active-duty military tactical operators, fully kitted in heavy combat gear, their weapon-mounted tactical lights blinding the mercenaries with twenty thousand lumens of strobe lighting.
“Federal Agents! Drop your weapons! Drop them now!”
The mercenaries, realizing they had driven directly into a heavily fortified kill-zone, attempted to raise their weapons and retreat to their vehicles.
From the high cliff overlooking the road, I fired three non-lethal flash-bang canisters and synchronized precision suppression rounds, disabling the tires and engine blocks of all four mercenary pickup trucks within four seconds.
Flash-bang grenades detonated with earth-shattering concussive blasts, disorienting the attackers.
Within forty-five seconds, without a single shot fired by the federal team, all eight mercenaries were pinned to the wet asphalt, disarmed, and secured in heavy steel restraints.
The lead mercenary, bleeding from a minor forehead scrape, looked up at me as I stepped down from the rock face.
“Who the hell are you?” he groaned.
I pulled his tactical radio from his chest rig, pressed the emergency broadcast channel that connected directly to Arthur Vance’s estate study, and spoke into the microphone:
“Arthur. Your ambush on Blackwood Ridge has failed. All eight of your contractors are in federal custody. Their weapons, their encrypted communication logs, and their confession tapes are currently being uploaded to the Department of Justice.”
On the other end of the radio, I could hear the sound of glass shattering as Arthur dropped his drink.
“You have three hours until the federal entry team breaches your front gates, Arthur,” I said calmly. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
May you like
I handed the radio back to Agent Lin.
The trap had closed. Arthur Vance’s private army was eliminated, and every bridge he had built to protect himself had just been burned to ash.
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