The Tearful Girl At The Bakery And The Vow Of Cole Mercer

CHAPTER 5: THE MOUNTAIN STAND

The underground prisoner transport garage beneath the Silverthorne County Courthouse was a cavern of reinforced concrete, oil-stained parking stalls, and fluorescent lights protected by heavy wire cages. Parked in the central staging lane were two armored SWAT transports and three blacked-out SUVs, their engines idling as tactical teams prepared to breach the elevator shafts.

At the north end of the subterranean structure, a massive steel roll-down crash gate barred the ramp leading up to Main Street.

The fire stairs door burst open.

Silas Mercer led the charge, firing two heavy beanbag rounds from his 12-gauge shotgun directly into the windshield of the lead SWAT transport. The high-velocity impact shattered the ballistic glass into a spiderweb of opaque white cracks, sending the occupants scrambling for cover.

Behind Silas, Dutch and Travis deployed two high-density smoke canisters rolled across the polished concrete floor. In less than five seconds, a wall of impenetrable, blinding white smoke swallowed the entire garage, muffling shouts, scattering flashlight beams into harmless glowing halos, and setting off the building’s automated deluge sprinkler system.

Water poured from the ceiling pipes like a torrential mountain downpour, mixing with the smoke and exhaust fumes to create absolute tactical pandemonium.

“Cole! The keys to the transport van!” Silas bellowed through the mist.

Cole lunged through the spray, driving his shoulder into an advancing security guard and stripping a set of heavy brass master vehicle keys from the contractor’s duty belt. He sprinted to a ten-ton municipal snowplow dump truck parked against the retaining wall—a massive machine equipped with a twelve-foot angled steel V-plow designed to clear eight-foot avalanche drifts from mountain passes.

Cole leaped into the cab, shoved the heavy key into the ignition, and twisted the starter.

The eighteen-liter turbo-diesel engine roared to life with an earth-shaking, window-rattling bellow that drowned out the gunfire. Cole slammed the pneumatic transmission into low gear and pinned the accelerator to the floorboards.

“Lily! Keep your head between your knees!” Cole shouted down to the girl huddled beside him on the passenger bench.

The ten-ton steel behemoth surged forward like an angry mechanical juggernaut.

The heavy V-plow struck the reinforced steel security crash gate at thirty-five miles an hour. With a deafening, apocalyptic screech of tearing metal and shearing bolts, the four-inch steel tracks were ripped entirely from the concrete pillars. The massive roll-down gate was violently hurled into the morning air, crashing onto the pavement of Main Street in a shower of sparks and pulverized asphalt.

The snowplow rocketed up the ramp into the bright sunlight, followed closely by Silas Mercer piloting his black Dodge Ram 2500, with Dutch, Hawk, and Travis riding the running boards.

They burst onto Main Street. But their escape was far from over.

From the southern highway interchange, three black luxury SUVs and a private armored tactical limousine were already screaming toward them at ninety miles an hour, their high beams flashing and automatic gunfire erupting from open passenger windows. Riding in the limousine was Victor Sterling, who had escaped through an executive elevator, screaming hysterically into a two-way radio to terminate the convoy before they reached the federal forest boundary.

“Take the Blue River Canyon road!” Silas shouted over the tactical radio channel. “The federal marshals have a regional outpost at the summit!”

Cole steered the massive snowplow broadside across Main Street, blocking the pursuit vehicles for a crucial thirty seconds, before vaulting down from the cab and leaping onto the pillion seat of his customized black Iron Ridge chopper, which Travis had rolled out from the bakery alleyway.

Cole settled Lily into the reinforced steel sidecar beside him, strapping her in with a four-point racing harness and pulling a padded leather flight helmet over her blonde hair.

“Are you ready, Lily?” Cole asked, his hand checking her chin strap.

Lily looked up at him through the clear polycarbonate visor, her small hand reaching out to touch his bearded cheek. “I trust you, Uncle Cole. Let’s make Aunt Clara proud.”

Cole dropped the kickstarter with all his weight.

The twin-cylinder 103-cubic-inch Harley engine roared into life with a ferocious, window-shaking bark that vibrated the very asphalt beneath them. Cole dumped the clutch. The wide rear tire bit into the cold pavement, launching the motorcycle and sidecar up the steep, winding incline of Highway 9 toward the cloud-shrouded peaks of the Continental Divide.

Behind them, the Dodge Ram surged into formation, its heavy steel rear bumper absorbing the first volley of rifle fire from the pursuing mercenary SUVs.

The road rose rapidly, twisting through dense stands of lodgepole pine and sheer granite cliffs that dropped hundreds of feet down into the rushing, icy torrent of the Blue River. Above, the sky had turned the color of bruised iron as an early autumn mountain blizzard began to sweep across the pass, whipping blinding sheets of horizontal snow across the asphalt.

“They’re boxing us on the hairpin curves!” Silas’s voice crackled through Cole’s helmet comms. “Sterling’s limousine has four-wheel drive and heavy armor! He’s trying to push you off the cliff at Dead Man’s Drop!”

The ice storm roared through the craggy pines, snapping brittle mountain branches that fell across the road like wooden barricades. Cole navigated the debris with razor-sharp reflexes, leaning the chopper low into the frozen ruts. In the sidecar, Lily reached out, her small mittened fingers tapping the fuel tank in a steady, reassuring rhythm she had learned from Clara. “Keep her steady, Uncle Cole!” the child yelled over the wind, her courage shining brighter than the headlights behind them. “Aunt Clara always said the engine knows when the rider’s heart is steady!”

Hearing his late wife’s words spoken through Lily’s voice sent a fresh surge of adrenaline coursing through Cole’s veins. He downshifted into third gear, feeling the rear tire bite through the slush, pulling away from the sheer precipice of the canyon.

Cole glanced into his rearview mirror. Through the swirling whiteout, the menacing chrome grille of Sterling’s armored limousine surged out of the blizzard, bearing down on Cole’s rear fender with terrifying speed.