Chapter 5 - The Highway Ramming
Tires screamed against the wet pavement as I slammed my foot onto the accelerator, launching my Ford F-250 out of the driveway and onto Route 9.
Rain had begun to pour in thick, blinding sheets, slicing through the darkness of the rural Ohio backroads. In the distance, red and blue emergency lights flashed erratically against the low-hanging clouds near the county line.
Three minutes later, I reached the crash site.
The county coroner's white transport van lay flipped on its side in the muddy ditch. Beside it, the massive silver grille of a Vance Logistics semi-truck was embedded into the van's rear doors. The driver's cab of the rig was empty, the driver's side door left hanging open in the wind.
I threw my truck into park and scrambled down into the muddy ravine, my boots sliding in the slick clay.
"Clara!" I screamed, pulling open the bent side door of the overturned van.
Inside, the county paramedic was conscious but bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead, frantically trying to unbuckle himself from his seatbelt. The gurney carrying Clara's black body bag was jammed against the rear partition, its heavy metal frame bent from the impact.
"Are you okay?!" I yelled, reaching in to help the paramedic cut his belt free.
"I'm fine... go!" the paramedic gasped, pointing through the shattered rear window toward the tree line. "Two men in dark coats... they pried the back doors open... they took the body onto a flatbed trailer heading south!"
I looked down the muddy access road running parallel to the highway. Tire tracks cut deep ruts into the grass leading toward the industrial gravel pit owned by Vance Enterprises—a three-hundred-acre quarry two miles down the road.
"Hayes! Miller!" I barked into my radio handset, which was tuned to the local emergency frequency. "They're taking her to the old stone quarry on Blackwood Road! They're going to dump the gurney into the deep pit!"
Without waiting for backup, I climbed back up the embankment, jumped into my truck, and tore down Blackwood Road.
Up ahead, through the heavy rain and flashing lightning, I spotted the silhouette of a black Ford F-350 pulling a covered tandem trailer, kicking up sprays of gravel as it smashed through the padlocked iron gates of the quarry.
I didn't slow down. I plowed my truck straight through the broken gate behind them, the metal bars tearing against my bumper with a deafening screech.
The quarry was a dark, terrifying abyss of jagged limestone cliffs and deep, water-filled craters.
The black truck slammed to a halt near the edge of the primary pit—a two-hundred-foot drop into black, stagnant water. Two men in rain slickers jumped out of the cab, rushing toward the rear of the trailer to unlock the ramp.
I floored the gas pedal, aiming my heavy truck directly at the rear bumper of their F-350.
CRASH!
The impact echoed across the quarry like a cannon shot. The black truck lurched forward, its tires spinning wildly on the wet gravel, stopping just inches from the edge of the precipice.
I threw my door open, stepped out into the pouring rain, and pulled a heavy tire iron from the bed of my truck.
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The driver of the black truck turned around, wiping rain from his face, and pulled a heavy black revolver from his coat.
It was Richard Vance—my boss.
