Chapter 7 - The Mountain Turnout
The high beams flooded the interior of the station wagon, reflecting off the rearview mirror and blinding Marcus for a split second. Lily began to cry from the back seat, frightened by the sudden illumination and the sharp tension radiating through the vehicle.
""Hold on,"" Marcus said calmly, downshifting the manual transmission into third gear. The engine roared in protest as he pressed the accelerator flat to the floorboards.
The wagon surged forward, but it was an older family vehicle, weighted down with luggage and passengers; it had no chance against the high-displacement engines chasing them. The lead vehicle—a dark, reinforced SUV—closed the gap within seconds, riding Marcus’s rear bumper until the metal guards tapped the station wagon with a sickening crunch.
""Marcus!"" Sarah screamed, twisting in her seat to shield Lily with her body. ""They're hitting us!""
""Look at the map on your phone,"" Marcus ordered, his voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic sway of the chassis. ""There's an old logging spur two miles up this ridge. Tell me when the marker comes up!""
""I don't have service!"" she cried, staring at the screen displaying no signal bars. ""The screen is dead!""
""They're running a localized frequency jammer,"" Marcus realized, clenching his teeth. ""Hold tight!""
The SUV rammed them again, harder this time, kicking the tail of the station wagon out toward the soft dirt shoulder. Marcus countered the skid with a sharp flick of the steering wheel, rubber smoking against the asphalt as he regained control. Ahead, the road crested a steep hill before plunging into an S-curve bordered by sheer rock faces on the left and a steep ravine on the right.
He knew this stretch of road; he had hunted these ridges with his father twenty years ago. There was an abandoned state forestry depot hidden behind an overgrown gravel turnaround just past the second curve.
The second pursuing SUV pulled up alongside Marcus on the left, attempting to pin them against the guardrail. Marcus saw the tinted window roll down an inch, the dull barrel of a pneumatic pit-maneuver spike emerging from the frame.
Instead of braking, Marcus hit the gas. He waited until the SUV began to swerve inward to deliver the crushing blow, then he slammed his foot hard onto the brake pedal and yanked the emergency handbrake.
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The station wagon fishtailed violently, screeching across both lanes in a cloud of burning rubber. The pursuing SUV, expecting impact resistance, overshot completely. Its front tires caught the damp gravel of the shoulder, lost traction, and barrel-rolled violently over the embankment, disappearing into the dark tree line with the sound of snapping branches and tearing metal.
Marcus released the handbrake, slammed the car into first gear, and cut his headlights, veering hard right into the black mouth of the logging road just as the first SUV rounded the bend.
