Chapter 13 - Convoy through the Ash
Three armored black Suburbans rolled off the federal pier into the heart of the city, flanked by motorcycle outriders from the U.S. Marshals Service. Clara rode in the center vehicle between Elena Croft and Marcus Vance, clutching the original bloodstained journal in an evidence pouch.
The city streets were eerily quiet. News of the ferry explosion and the death of Eleanor Vance had cast a pall over the metropolis, but the media narrative was already shifting. Broadcast vans were tailing the convoy, their long antennas bobbing like reeds in the wind.
“Two miles to the federal courthouse,” the driver announced over the radio. “Intersection at 5th and Broad is barricaded by state troopers. They’re claiming a gas leak.”
Marcus picked up the radio mic. “This is Federal Task Force One. Break through the barricade. Do not stop for state authorities.”
The lead Suburban accelerated, its heavy steel bumper smashing through the plastic sawhorses and wooden barriers set up by the state police. Troopers stood by their cruisers with handguns drawn, but none dared fire on a marked federal convoy with news helicopters circling overhead.
As they cleared the intersection, entering the deep concrete canyon of the financial district, an unmarked cement mixer truck suddenly pulled out from an alleyway, accelerating directly toward the convoy’s flank.
“Brace!” Elena yelled.
The mixer collided with the lead vehicle, rolling it over in a horrific shower of sparks and shattered glass. The driver of Clara’s vehicle slammed on the brakes, tires shrieking as the Suburban spun ninety degrees, slamming into a fire hydrant.
Before the dust could settle, flashbang grenades exploded around the vehicle, blinding the windows with white phosphor light. Heavy caliber rounds punched through the armored doors, spider-webbing the ballistic glass.
“Get down!” Marcus shouted, drawing his sidearm and returning fire through the gun ports.
Clara pressed her back against the floorboards as the vehicle rocked under the barrage. Through the cracked window, she saw a black SUV pull up. The passenger door opened, and Raymond Sterling stepped out, carrying an antique ivory-handled cane in one hand and a heavy revolver in the other.
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He walked calmly toward the wrecked Suburban, completely indifferent to the cameras buzzing hundreds of feet above in the sky.
“Clara, my dear,” Sterling’s amplified voice boomed over the gunfire. “Did you really think a few federal badges could unseat forty years of sovereignty? Step out with the book, or I’ll have them burn everyone inside that car alive.”
