Chapter 7 - The Chase on Highway 9
“Get in the truck, right now!” Arthur barked, his face draining of color as he slammed his truck door shut. “If he knows you talked to us, he isn't waiting for the police. He’s coming up that mountain himself.”
I didn't need to be told twice. I scrambled into the passenger seat, slammed my door, and turned around to check on Chloe.
“Hang on tight, sweetheart,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. “We’re going on a fast ride.”
Arthur threw the truck into reverse, spinning the heavy four-wheel-drive vehicle around in a spray of gravel just as the distant roar of a high-end sports engine echoed up the quiet logging road.
Through the rear window, a sleek black Mercedes SUV came tearing around the bend of Old Logging Road 4, tires screeching against the dirt, throwing up clouds of dust fifty feet into the air.
“He tracked your phone!” Arthur cursed loudly, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal.
Our truck surged forward, careening down the winding mountain path. The Blackwood Ridge road was narrow, flanked by steep drops on one side and jagged granite rock walls on the other. It was no place for a luxury German SUV—unless the driver was completely out of his mind with panic and rage.
In our side mirror, I watched as the black Mercedes fishtailed violently around a hairpin turn, its front bumper slamming into a pine tree before correcting itself and accelerating aggressively right behind us.
“Arthur, he’s gaining on us!” I shouted, holding onto the dashboard with both hands while keeping one arm stretched back to shield Chloe.
“Hold on! This road gets rougher up ahead!” Arthur yelled back, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles as he navigated a series of terrifying switchbacks.
The Mercedes slammed its front bumper directly into our tailgate with a loud, metallic CLANG. The impact jolted our truck forward, sending us sliding across the loose gravel. Chloe let out a small, terrified scream from the back seat.
“He’s trying to run us off the road!” I yelled, fury overriding my terror.
“He’s cornered, and a cornered rat will bite anything!” Arthur shouted back, shifting down a gear as we hit a steep straightaway.
Ahead of us, the logging road opened up onto the main state highway—Highway 9. If we could reach the highway before Lucas forced us off the cliff, we could flag down traffic or reach the state police detachment stationed at the valley junction.
In the rearview mirror, I saw Lucas through the windshield of the Mercedes. His face was twisted into a mask of pure, demonic fury, his eyes wide and unhinged, pressing his foot down on the gas pedal with lethal intent. He didn't care anymore about plausible deniability. He didn't care about keeping up appearances. He wanted us dead, buried, and silenced forever.
The Mercedes surged forward again, pulling up alongside our driver’s side, its heavy steel body grinding against our door panels in a shower of orange sparks.
“He’s going to pit us!” Arthur warned.
Just as the Mercedes veered hard to the left, trying to clip our front quarter-panel and send us plunging down the ravine, a loud, wailing siren cut through the roar of the engines.
From around the highway junction ahead, two black-and-white state patrol cruisers rounded the corner with their emergency lights flashing blindingly red and blue.
Lucas slammed on his brakes so hard his tires smoked, throwing his Mercedes into a violent skid across the asphalt.
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Arthur didn't hesitate. He slammed our truck across the highway intersection, pulling right behind the leading state patrol cruiser, while the second cruiser swung around to block the logging road exit completely.
The trap had sprung.
