Chapter 8 - HIGHWAY 95
The chase along Interstate 95 felt like a waking nightmare stretched across forty miles of dark asphalt.
The storm showed no sign of letting up. Thunder shook the truck frame every few minutes, and rain poured down so heavily the wipers could barely clear a view of the road.
Behind us, the two black SUVs trailed like predatory sharks, hovering just fifty yards back, waiting for a stretch of highway without highway traffic cameras to ram us off the road.
“They aren't passing,” Sam observed, his dark eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “They’re trying to pin us against the concrete barrier near the Providence turnoff.”
In the passenger seat, I sat with my hands pressed against my abdomen. The violent cramps had subsided slightly thanks to the heat in the cab, but a persistent, dull ache remained.
I held the red folder tight against my chest like a shield.
“Sam,” I whispered, looking at his calm, weathered profile. “Why are you doing this? You don't even know me. You could get killed.”
Sam spat out the window through a tiny crack.
“Victor Hale’s chemical plant poisoned my fishing bay three years ago,” Sam said quietly. “My youngest son took a job there to pay for college. He got sick—leukemia. Hale’s lawyers buried us in legal motions until my son died waiting for his settlement. I vowed on his grave I’d live long enough to see that family in handcuffs.”
He looked over at me, his eyes soft with a profound, paternal empathy.
“You’re carrying a human life, Claire. Not a piece of corporate property. As long as I’m breathing, they aren't taking you back to that house.”
Suddenly, the black SUV on our left surged forward, its massive steel bull-bar slamming violently against our driver-side panel.
CRASH!
The truck swerved wildly, tires shrieking against the wet asphalt. Sparks flew into the night as Sam fought the steering wheel, grinding his teeth.
“HANG ON!” Sam bellowed.
The second SUV pulled up on our right, trapping us between two six-ton armored vehicles.
Through the rain-streaked window of the right SUV, I saw the front passenger window roll down three inches.
Dr. Reeves was sitting inside, holding a high-powered pneumatic dart gun—the kind used for animal tranquilization.
He was aiming directly at my window.
“They don't want to crash us!” I screamed. “They’re trying to sedate you so the truck stops!”
“Not today!” Sam yelled.
Sam slammed his foot on the brake pedal with absolute, violent force.
The old pickup’s brakes locked up instantly. The truck slid sideways, smoke pouring from the tires, dropping back twenty feet in a second.
The two heavy SUVs, unprepared for the sudden maneuver, shot forward, slamming into each other with a deafening crunch of tearing metal and shattering fiberglass.
The right SUV spun out of control, clipping the center concrete barrier, flipping twice in mid-air before crashing onto its roof in a shower of sparks and metal debris.
The second SUV swerved, blowing its front tire, dragging its rim along the guardrail before grinding to a halt in the breakdown lane.
Sam straightened his wheel, shifted gears, and roared past the burning wreck, accelerating down the off-ramp toward the bright, glowing skyline of Boston.
In the side mirror, I saw a figure stumble out of the smoking driver’s door of the second SUV.
Daniel.
He stood in the middle of the rain-slicked highway, clutching his injured arm, watching Sam’s yellow truck vanish into the city lights.
He didn't chase us anymore.
May you like
Because he knew where we were going.
And he knew it was already too late.
