Chapter 86 - The Gatekeeper
I didn't take my foot off the accelerator.
The crane was an eighty-ton hydraulic monster, parked broadside across the concrete bridge that spanned the swollen waters of Blackwood Creek. There was no room to steer around it; on the left was a twenty-foot drop into the churning, rocky rapids, and on the right was a sheer rock face blasted out for the highway.
*00:16:40.*
The figure on the crane lowered the flare toward the bridge deck. In the glaring red light, I recognized the scarred, ruined face of Harlan’s chief enforcer—the man who had led the assault on the sanctuary dock three weeks ago. He had survived the wreck of the *Vanguard*, his arm bound in a splint, but his eyes were wide and manic with suicidal loyalty.
At the base of the crane sat three hundred-pound propane cylinders, chained together with detonator cords leading directly to a hand switch in his good hand.
He wasn't there to stop me with questions. He was there to ensure that no one crossed that bridge alive.
"He wants a wall," I muttered, my jaw clenching. "Let's see how thick it is."
I reached over and grabbed the mercenary’s carbine from the passenger seat. Steering with my left knee pressed against the wheel, I leveled the barrel through the shattered windshield, aiming not at the man, but at the hydraulic cylinders supporting the crane’s extended boom.
Five hundred yards out.
The man raised the detonator switch, a manic grin stretching his burned skin.
Four hundred yards.
I squeezed the trigger, firing three-round bursts through the driving rain. The heavy rounds sparked against the painted steel of the crane arm. One round struck the high-pressure hydraulic line near the pivot hinge.
A jet of crimson hydraulic fluid sprayed into the air like arterial blood under five thousand pounds of pressure. The massive steel boom shuddered, groaned with an agonizing metallic shriek, and began to drop uncontrollably, swinging downward toward the concrete roadway.
Three hundred yards.
The man on top realized the arm was falling toward his own platform. He panicked, fumbling with the detonator wire as the descending boom clipped the propane cylinders, sending them spinning across the wet asphalt like bowling pins.
"Hold on," I whispered to the empty cab.
I swerved the truck toward the narrow gap between the counterweight of the crane and the concrete guardrail. The falling steel boom crashed onto the road less than ten feet in front of my hood, throwing up a shower of concrete fragments and sparks that gouged deep grooves into the truck's hood.
The front right fender of the truck slammed into the edge of the crane's steel outrigger with a sickening crunch that ripped the wheel well away and sent the front suspension groaning. The truck spun violently, skimming along the bridge guardrail, sparks erupting along the entire passenger side.
I fought the steering wheel, pumping the brakes to break the spin. The truck skidded three hundred and sixty degrees on the slick bridge deck, the rear bumper smashing through the wooden security barrier, before coming to a violent, shuddering halt on the other side of the creek.
The engine sputtered, backfired once, and stalled.
Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of rain on the smoking hood and the distant, deafening roar of venting chemical steam from the terminal three hundred yards ahead.
*00:11:05.*
I kicked the driver’s door open—it groaned against the buckled frame—and fell onto the wet asphalt. Blood was trickling down my forehead where my head had clipped the sun visor, warm and sticky in the cold wind.
Behind me on the bridge, the propane cylinders erupted in a low, thudding fireball that lit the foggy river valley in orange light, cutting off any possibility of retreat. The enforcer was gone, swallowed by the river or the fire.
I snatched my father’s brass key and the encrypted phone from the floorboard.
Ahead of me, the main administrative and control complex of the Blackwood Terminal loomed behind a triple-layered security perimeter. The automated alarms were screaming now, a mechanical, synthesized voice echoing through the hills:
*WARNING. CRITICAL OVERPRESSURE IN SECTOR FOUR. CONTAINMENT FAILURE IMMINENT IN TEN MINUTES. EVACUATE TO A FIVE-MILE RADIUS IMMEDIATELY.*
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I ran toward the entrance, my boots splashing through chemical runoff that had already turned the standing water an iridescent, oily sheen.
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