Chapter 3 - The Ambush at the Crossing
The night shattered into violence.
Bright, blinding halogen floodlights erupted from the tops of the semi-trucks, pinning Roman’s four-SUV convoy in a glare of harsh white light.
TAK-TAK-TAK-TAK-TAK!
Automatic gunfire shredded the darkness, heavy armor-piercing rounds raining down upon the lead vehicle. The bulletproof glass of Roman’s SUV spider-webbed violently, holding together under the immense pressure, but the force rocked the heavy vehicle like a boat caught in a hurricane.
"AMBUSH! GET DOWN!" screamed Roman’s lead driver, hauling his sidearm from his holster as a secondary explosion rocked the trailing SUV behind them.
Inside the passenger cabin, Graham was hyperventilating, curled in a ball on the floorboards, screaming in raw terror.
Roman didn't panic. His blood ran cold, crystalizing into absolute focus. This was the trap Graham had arranged with Warren Pike—a total annihilation of Roman’s command unit on an isolated stretch of Interstate 95.
"Report!" Roman shouted into his tactical earpiece.
"Unit Three is down, boss!" his team leader barked over the crackling comms. "Unit Two is setting up a defensive perimeter! They've got fifty men on the overpass! It’s Pike’s main strike force!"
"They brought a war to my highway," Roman said through gritted teeth.
He grabbed Graham by the collar, dragging the weeping lawyer upright.
"You're going to earn your life tonight, Graham," Roman growled. "Call Pike. Right now. Tell him you have me pinned inside the lead car and that he needs to step down from the overpass to collect the deeds personally."
"He'll kill me!" Graham sobbed.
"I will kill you in three seconds if you don't unlock that phone!" Roman roared, shoving the barrel of his silver revolver against Graham’s chin.
Shaking violently, Graham dialed a secure line on his cell phone, putting it on speaker.
After two rings, a gravelly, arrogant voice answered over the noise of distant gunfire.
"Is it done, Graham?" Warren Pike demanded over the line. "Is Roman dead?"
"P-Pike! It’s Graham!" the lawyer stammered, tears streaming down his face. "The car is hit! Roman is wounded in the back seat! He... he has the deeds on him! But his men are holding the line! You need to come down and secure the leather journal before his backup arrives from Baltimore!"
A pause stretched over the line. Then, Warren Pike chuckled—a dry, cruel sound.
"Good work, rat. I’m coming down."
The call disconnected.
Roman looked at his driver. "When I open the left passenger door, execute a full reverse spin toward the bridge abutment. Unit Two will provide covering fire."
"Understood, Mr. Vale."
Outside, the heavy gunfire slackened as a dozen tall, heavily armed figures in black tactical gear descended the metal stairs of the overpass, surrounding the smoking lead SUV.
At the center of the group walked Warren Pike—a heavy-set man in his late fifties wearing an expensive mink-collared coat, holding a heavy chrome pistol in his hand.
"Roman Vale!" Pike shouted over the roar of the idling engines and falling rain. "The great sovereign of Baltimore! Dying in a ditch on I-95! Your grandfather took my family's docks, and tonight, I take your life!"
Pike stepped up to the spider-webbed rear window of the lead vehicle, reaching out to yank the door handle open.
The door swung open with violent force—not from the outside, but driven from within by Roman’s heavy boot slamming straight into Pike’s chest!
Pike flew backward into the rain-slicked mud with a heavy grunt.
At that exact second, blinding red flares exploded across the highway embankment behind Pike’s men!
"VALE SECURITY! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Out of the surrounding forest emerged thirty heavily armed operatives—not Roman’s usual team, but the private tactical strike force owned by the Maryland State Logistics Authority!
Roman had spent the early morning hours before leaving his estate sending encrypted copies of Pike’s illegal land seizures directly to the Federal Maritime Commission. He hadn't just brought his own men; he had arranged a joint federal and state ambush!
Gunfire erupted anew, but this time, Pike’s men were caught in a crossfire between Roman’s armored units and the state tactical team.
Roman stepped out of the SUV into the pouring rain, his long coat billowing around his legs. His silver revolver was raised, his eyes fixed on Warren Pike as the rival syndicate boss scrambled backward in the mud, reaching for his dropped gun.
Roman kicked the weapon out of Pike’s reach, stepping directly onto the man's chest with heavy, unyielding pressure.
"The deeds never belonged to your family, Warren," Roman said softly, his voice cutting through the chaos of gunfire and sirens wailing in the distance. "And you made the fatal mistake of coming into my territory."
Pike glared up at Roman, his face bruised and covered in mud, breathing heavily. "You think you've won, Vale? You think this ends here? I have Sarah Vance! And I have people inside your house right now!"
Roman’s heart dropped like an anchor into ice.
"What did you say?" Roman hissed, tightening his heel on Pike’s chest.
Pike spat blood onto the asphalt, laughing maniacally. "You brought your strike force to the highway, Roman! You left your estate weak! I sent my top team—six men—to Greenwich an hour ago! By now, your little housemaid and her child are in the back of a van heading for the docks!"
Roman didn't hesitate.
He raised his gun, fired a single shot into the front tire of Pike’s escape vehicle to disable it, and turned back to his driver.
May you like
"CALL VICTOR!" Roman roared into his headset, horror spiking through his veins like poison as he leapt into the driver's seat of the trailing SUV. "VICTOR, ANSWER ME!"
All he heard through the earpiece was static... followed by the sound of glass shattering and gunfire echoing from his own home.
