Chapter 4 - The Canyon Ambush
The Montana night was pitch black, illuminated only by a sliver of a crescent moon hanging over the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains.
I moved through the thick pine needles like a shadow, my night-vision goggles rendering the dark forest in sharp, brilliant shades of green and black. Behind me, six HRT operators moved in a silent, synchronized wedge formation.
The temperature had dropped to twenty-two degrees. My breath formed small, quiet plumes of steam against the rubber mouth-guard of my headset.
"Ghost-1, this is Overwatch," Vance's voice crackled softly into my earpiece. "Convoy has crossed the border. Three heavy logging trucks, escorted by two marked sheriff cruisers. They are five minutes from your ambush zone."
"Copy, Overwatch," I whispered into my throat mic. "We are in position at the bridge."
The Bear Creek narrow-gauge bridge was an ancient timber structure spanning a fifty-foot rocky gorge. It was the only way across the creek for twenty miles in either direction. If the convoy crossed it, they were on open highway.
If they stopped on it, they were trapped in a funnel.
I dropped to one knee behind a large granite boulder fifty yards from the northern approach of the bridge. Agent Miller crouched beside me, holding a remote detonator connected to four tactical EMP charges planted under the wooden bridge support beams.
"Remember," I whispered to Miller. "We don't destroy the bridge. We disable the lead cruiser's electronics. The trucks won't be able to turn around on this narrow trail."
"Understood, Commander," Miller nodded.
Down the trail, the low rumble of heavy diesel engines began to shake the pine trees.
Headlights cut through the thick mountain fog. The first vehicle came into view—a silver Ford Explorer sheriff's cruiser with county emblems on the doors. Driving it was Chief Deputy Hank Higgins, Travis Cole's primary enforcer. Right behind him rolled the massive grill of an eighteen-wheeler timber truck, its trailer loaded with heavy steel tanks hidden beneath stacks of raw logs.
Bringing up the rear was Travis Cole’s personal blacked-out Chevy Tahoe.
"Target entering the kill zone," I whispered. "3... 2... 1... Trigger."
Miller pressed the button.
A silent, invisible pulse of electromagnetic energy erupted from the bridge deck.
Instantly, the headlights of the lead cruiser died. The engine sputtered, died instantly, and the heavy vehicle skidded sideways across the narrow timber bridge, coming to a dead halt. The timber truck behind it slammed on its pneumatic brakes with a deafening screech of metal, missing the cruiser's bumper by inches.
The entire convoy ground to a halt.
Through my night-vision gear, I saw Chief Deputy Higgins kick his door open, drawing his sidearm, screaming into a dead radio. "What the hell! My power's gone! Entire rig went dead!"
In the rear vehicle, Travis Cole stepped out onto the gravel trail, holding a heavy tactical flashlight and a short-barreled shotgun. "Higgins! Get that piece of junk off the bridge! Move!"
"It's dead, Sheriff! The battery just exploded!"
I unclipped a tactical flashbang grenade from my chest rig, pulled the pin with my thumb, and cooked it for one second.
"Welcome to Montana, Travis," I whispered.
I threw the grenade in a high, perfect arc through the trees.
It landed precisely at Travis Cole’s feet.
BANG-FLASH!
A blinding white explosion of two million candlepower and 170 decibels shattered the quiet canyon.
Cole screamed, dropping his shotgun, clutching his eyes and ears as he stumbled backward into the mud.
"GO! GO! GO!" Miller yelled into his comms.
Tactical floodlights mounted on our support vehicles snapped on instantly, illuminating the narrow canyon in blinding white light. Dozens of federal agents swarmed out from the pine trees, weapons raised, red laser sights painting the chests of the disoriented deputies.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! GET ON THE GROUND!"
The contract mercenaries near the timber trucks immediately raised their hands, tossing their rifles into the dirt. They were professionals—they knew when they were completely outmaneuvered.
Chief Deputy Higgins tried to raise his sidearm toward an advancing agent.
I didn't hesitate. I fired two rubber non-lethal impact rounds from my underslung launcher.
THUMP-THUMP!
The heavy rubber batons struck Higgins directly in the ribs, knocking the breath out of him and sending him crashing into the mud, gasping for air.
Within sixty seconds, fifteen suspects were on their knees, hands zip-tied behind their backs.
Except one.
I looked at the rear vehicle. The driver's door of Cole’s Chevy Tahoe was wide open. A trail of frantic footprints led into the thick brush toward the gorge.
Travis Cole was running.
I unslung my rifle, snapped it into my shoulder, and stepped into the pitch-black woods alone.
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"Commander, wait for backup!" Miller called out.
"He's mine," I said quietly.
