Chapter 4 - The Ambush at Mile Marker 44
The black sedan didn't slow down as it approached the diner. It drifted sideways across the asphalt, spraying gravel against the front windows of the Route 66 diner before slamming to a halt right where Elena’s truck had been parked two minutes prior.
The rear doors flew open simultaneously. Four men stepped out into the blinding sun. They wore identical dark suits, sunglasses, and earpieces, their hands resting ominously beneath their jackets where shoulder holsters bulged against the fabric.
The lead man—a tall, scarred operative with a crew cut named Vance (no relation to Victoria or the corporate elites, just a coincidence of cold corporate violence)—scanned the empty parking lot, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Grizz sitting astride his idling Harley twenty yards away, blocking the exit ramp.
"Miller," the operative muttered into his collar mic, his hand sliding inside his jacket. "Target's associate is blocking the road. Execute protocol B."
Grizz didn't flinch. He revved his engine twice, the deep exhaust note echoing off the desert cliffs like distant thunder. He pulled his leather riding gloves tight over his knuckles, kicked up his kickstand, and stared down the men who had stolen twelve years of his life.
"You boys took a long detour," Grizz called out, his voice carrying clearly across the dry air. "Wrong territory to be playing dress-up in federal suits."
The operative smiled, a humorless, thin-lipped grimace. "You should have stayed in the ground, Miller. The board paid a lot of money to keep that family buried."
"The board's about to find out inflation is a bitch," Grizz growled.
He dumped the clutch. The rear tire of the chopper bit into the asphalt with a squeal of burning rubber, and the heavy machine rocketed forward like a missile directly toward the center of the sedan.
The operatives scattered, drawing sidearms, but Grizz was already cutting hard to the left, spraying a shower of hot gravel into their shins before throwing the bike into a high-speed slide that kicked up a blinding cloud of dust.
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A muffled pop-pop of suppressed gunfire cracked through the desert air, chewing up the wooden siding of the diner behind him, but Grizz was already gone, roaring up the winding highway toward Rattlesnake Ridge where Elena and the girls were waiting.
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