Chapter 7 - The Desperate Ambush
The evacuation plan was swift and covert. We dressed Penelope in an oversized hoodie, placed her in an unmarked wheelchair, and moved through the subterranean utility tunnels of Nationwide Children’s Hospital rather than the main lobby.
Two unmarked black Chevy Suburbans waited in the loading dock. Sergeant Cole took the driver’s seat of the lead vehicle; I sat in the back of the second SUV with Penelope buckled tightly beside me, flanked by two armed federal marshals. Detective Miller followed behind in an unmarked cruiser.
"Ten miles to the Interstate," Cole’s voice crackled through the secure comms. "Air Force security forces are standing by at the Wright-Patterson gate. Once we’re inside the perimeter, civilian jurisdiction ends, and Maxwell couldn't breach it with an army."
The sky overhead turned bruised purple with an impending autumn storm. Rain began to spatter against the armored glass of the Suburban as we turned onto Route 315, heading toward the highway bypass.
Suddenly, a loud metallic crash shook the air.
A concrete mixer truck barreled out of a commercial staging yard, completely ignoring the red light, and broadsided the lead Suburban carrying Marcus Cole.
The impact sounded like an artillery shell detonating. The lead vehicle spun violently across three lanes, slamming into a concrete guardrail, its front end crumpled.
"Ambush! Ambush!" Cole’s voice roared through the static-filled radio. "I'm hit! Move, Gwen! Get Penelope out of here!"
Before our driver could reverse, a black Ford F-350 with reinforced steel bumpers slammed hard into our rear bumper, spinning our SUV around. The tires screeched against the wet asphalt, the vehicle shuddering to a halt facing the opposite direction.
"Stay down!" the federal marshal in the passenger seat yelled, drawing his Glock.
Automatic gunfire erupted. High-caliber rounds shattered the side windows of our vehicle, the reinforced ballistic glass spider-webbing but holding against the onslaught. The driver took a round to the shoulder and slumped forward over the steering wheel, his foot slipping off the brake.
"Mommy!" Penelope screamed, covering her ears, curled into a tight ball on the floorboards.
"Stay under the seat, Penny! Do not move!" I shouted.
I didn't have a sidearm—military regulations barred me from carrying off-base—but the wounded marshal next to me dropped his weapon as a round tore through his bicep. I snatched his tactical Sig Sauer P320 from the floor, racked the slide with one fluid, experienced motion, and kicked the damaged passenger door open.
Through the rain and smoke, three masked men in tactical gear were advancing on our vehicle, firing controlled bursts. Behind them, stepping out from the Ford F-350, was Maxwell.
He was unhinged. His expensive suit was torn, his hair plastered to his forehead by the pouring rain, holding a semi-automatic shotgun in his hands.
"Gwen!" he screamed over the rumble of thunder. "Give me the girl! Just give me the girl and you get to live!"
I didn't waste breath answering.
Dropping into a low crouch behind the engine block, I acquired the first shooter on the left. Two center-mass shots. The shooter collapsed onto the slick asphalt.
The second gunman adjusted his aim toward me, but a deafening crack echoed from fifty yards away—Detective Miller, firing through her shattered windshield, dropped him instantly.
The third gunman panicked and retreated toward the truck.
Maxwell, seeing his hired mercenaries fall, snapped completely. He raised the shotgun, aiming directly through the rear window of the Suburban where Penelope was hiding.
"If I can't have the payout, nobody gets her!" he howled.
Time slowed to a crawling, crystal-clear freeze frame.
I didn't think about court battles. I didn't think about military decorum. I thought about the needle marks on my daughter’s arms, the padlock keys taped under the satin cushion of a child-sized coffin, and the tiny voice that had whispered: *Mommy, don’t let Daddy lock me up again.*
I stepped out from behind the engine block, raising the pistol with both hands, perfectly aligning the sights on Maxwell’s chest.
I pulled the trigger three times.
The rounds struck Maxwell in the torso. The shotgun flew from his hands, firing harmlessly into the stormy sky, and he collapsed backward into the pooling rainwater.
I sprinted toward him, kicking the shotgun twenty feet away, and pinned his bleeding chest to the asphalt with my tactical boot.
Maxwell coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. He looked up at me with wide, terrified eyes, the manic fury draining away, replaced by the pathetic cowardice that had always lived beneath his charming facade.
"Gwen... please..." he choked out. "Call an ambulance... you're a doctor..."
I looked down at the man who had tried to cremate our living child for paper money.
"I am a doctor, Maxwell," I said coldly, keeping my weapon trained on his forehead. "And my diagnosis is that you are going to live long enough to die in a cage."
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Down the highway, the wail of dozens of police sirens sliced through the rain. A convoy of Ohio State Highway Patrol cruisers and Air Force security Humvees swept onto the highway, surrounding the area in an unbreakable ring of steel.
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