The Neon Racing Bicycle Beyond Barnaby’s Electric Fence
CHAPTER 5: VOLTAGE AND FAVORS
Jonah did not freeze. With the split-second instinct of a varsity runner, he grabbed the heavy blue contingency binder off the desk and hurled it with all his strength straight into Adrian Cross’s face.
The heavy steel rings and four hundred pages of laminated paper struck Cross squarely between the eyes, shattering his mirrored sunglasses and knocking him off balance. Cross stumbled backward with a muffled curse, tumbling down the wooden steps onto the gravel concourse.
Jonah ripped the flash drive from the USB port, shoved it deep into his jeans pocket, leaped clean over the fallen cyclist, and hit the fairground turf at a full sprint.
“Stop that kid!” Cross roared from the gravel, clutching his bleeding nose. “Security! Stop him! He’s a thief!”
Two private event guards in neon vests turned at the entrance of the merchandise tent, reaching out to block the corridor, but Jonah dropped his shoulder, veered sharply around an outdoor display of carbon racing wheels, and vaulted over a row of steel barricades. He cut through the crowded food truck alley, ducked beneath a canvas hospitality awning, and burst through the fairgrounds’ rear service gate into the quiet backstreet behind the feed store.
Mae’s truck was idling by the loading bay. Jonah tore the passenger door open, threw himself onto the bench seat, and slammed the heavy door.
“Go, Mae! Go!” Jonah gasped, his chest heaving as he pulled the drive from his pocket. “He was in the trailer! I have everything! The emails, the Cayman bank transfer, the pre-dated condemnation order from September!”
Mae dropped the heavy four-speed transmission into gear, dumped the clutch, and the truck roared out of the alley, tires screeching as she turned onto the Route 29 bypass.
“Did anyone follow?” Mae asked, checking her side mirrors with calm, razor-sharp focus.
“Cross was still on the ground, but he had his phone out,” Jonah said, gasping for air. “Pritchard’s at the courthouse right now trying to get the writ against Barnaby!”
Before they could reach the northern highway ramp, the shrill wail of a high-performance police siren erupted behind them. A dark green county sedan surged out of a commercial intersection, its amber emergency lights and red grille strobes flashing violently. Officer Dale Pritchard was behind the wheel, his broad face purple with fury, his tires smoking as he accelerated to eighty miles an hour on the two-lane bypass.
Pritchard swung the heavy cruiser across the center line, attempting to pull alongside Mae’s truck and force her front wheels off the asphalt onto the steep, boulder-strewn shoulder.
Mae gripped the steering wheel with steady, iron hands. She did not panic. She did not swerve. She knew every bump and ditch of Route 29 like the lines on her own palm. As Pritchard swerved inward to ram her driver-side door, Mae tapped her brakes, dropping her heavy steel rear bumper back six inches.
Pritchard’s front quarter panel clipped the solid four-inch channel iron of Mae’s farm hitch. The impact tore away the cruiser’s fiberglass front bumper with a deafening metallic screech, sending plastic fragments spinning across the road, but the heavy farm truck held its line true.
“He’s trying to kill us!” Jonah shouted.
“He’s trying to destroy that flash drive,” Mae said, her voice dropping into an icy, steady rhythm. “The county line is two miles ahead. State Police Troop B has headquarters at the Culpeper interchange. County officers have no jurisdiction on state property. Call the barracks, Jonah! Number three on the visor!”
Jonah snatched the emergency card from the visor and dialed the direct dispatch line.
“Virginia State Police, Troop B Headquarters,” the dispatcher answered calmly.
“This is Jonah Bell from Juniper Vale Ranch!” Jonah spoke loudly and clearly into the phone. “We are northbound on Route 29 at Mile Marker 18, being pursued and assaulted by Blue Ridge County Code Officer Dale Pritchard in vehicle Unit 4! He is attempting to force us off the road to destroy federal evidence of municipal extortion, bribery, and wire fraud involving the Blue Ridge Gran Fondo! We need immediate state intervention!”
The dispatcher’s voice shifted instantly from routine to high-alert urgency. “Maintain your lane, Unit. We have two interceptors rolling from the interchange now. Hold your speed.”
A mile ahead, two sleek blue-and-gray Virginia State Police cruisers surged onto the highway from the Culpeper overpass, their roof lights blazing in brilliant strobe patterns. They swept across the highway, forming a rolling barrier between Mae’s truck and the pursuing county cruiser.
Pritchard saw the state cruisers. He hit his brakes hard, spun his damaged vehicle around across the grass median, and fled south toward the mountain backroads.
The lead state cruiser signaled Mae to pull onto the paved apron of the Troop B headquarters.
Captain Robert Hayes met them on the asphalt. He was a tall, lean state investigator with twenty-five years on the force, known throughout the Piedmont for his relentless pursuit of public corruption.
Inside the briefing room, Hayes plugged Jonah’s flash drive into the state police forensic network. On the large wall monitor, the documents unfolded in crystal-clear detail: the September emails between Grant, Pritchard, and Cross; the forged surveyor logs; and an electronic bank wire receipt showing a twenty-thousand-dollar transfer from Blue Ridge Sports Group into an offshore account registered to Pritchard’s wife.
Captain Hayes stood motionless, his hands resting on his duty belt, his jaw tightening into rigid granite.
“This isn’t just a code violation,” Hayes said quietly. “This is felony wire fraud, commercial extortion under color of state law, and criminal conspiracy. Where is Tessa Grant right now?”
“At the race expo,” Mae said. “Preparing to run four hundred cyclists across my pasture at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Hayes reached for his campaign cover on the desk. “Not on my watch, Ms. Turner. Let’s go shut this circus down.”
