Chapter 8 - The Freight Line Ambush
“Down!” my father hissed, shoving Sarah and me into the tall, dry grass beside the ballast.
Across the tracks, one of the Apex contractors raised a high-frequency tracking wand, watching the small digital screen blink erratically.
“Signal is bouncing,” the mercenary called out to his companions over the hum of the idling freight locomotive fifty yards up the line. “They’re within fifty meters. Sweep the treeline!”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked down at my hands, still small, still trembling, and remembered the promise I made under the bus bench on Aldridge Street: Do the right thing. I hadn't asked to be part of a military conspiracy, but standing here in the mud with my father, running from men who had murdered General Graves, I knew there was no turning back.
“Sarah, take the left flank,” my father whispered, his voice completely devoid of panic, carrying the absolute calm of a seasoned combat veteran. “Draw their fire toward the water tanks. I’ll cross the tracks behind the boxcars and flank their position.”
“And Ruby?” Sarah asked, her eyes darting toward me.
“She stays with me,” my father said without hesitation. “We make the train on the count of three.”
Sarah nodded once, slipping silently through the brush like a shadow. A moment later, a sharp crack echoed from the opposite side of the rail yard as Sarah’s silenced pistol struck a metal water valve, sending a high-pressure spray hissing into the night air.
“Over there! Movement by the tanks!” the lead mercenary shouted, pivoting his rifle and rushing toward the noise, followed immediately by his two companions.
“Now!” my father roared.
We broke cover, sprinting across the gravel ballast toward the open sliding door of a weathered boxcar idling at the tail end of the freight train. My sneakers slipped on the loose stones, and for a terrifying second, my knees buckled, but my father’s strong hand caught me by the collar, lifting me effortlessly and hurling me over the metal threshold into the dim, dusty interior of the car.
He vaulted in right behind us, pulling the heavy sliding door shut just as a burst of automatic gunfire pinged violently against the exterior steel plating.
Clang! Clang-clang!
Outside, shouting voices echoed across the rail yard, followed by the deep, rhythmic chug of the locomotive engine beginning to rev. The train gave a violent, bone-jarring lurch forward, steel wheels screeching against the iron tracks as it slowly began to roll away from the station.
We had made it. Or so I thought.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim gloom inside the boxcar, a cold, metallic click echoed from the far dark corner near stacked wooden crates.
“Nice try, Captain Miller,” a smooth, chillingly familiar voice drawled from the shadows.
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A flashlight flickered on, illuminating the face of Marcus Vance as he sat calmly on a wooden crate, holding a loaded SIG Sauer pointed directly at my father’s chest.
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