Chapter 4 - The Ambush on Route 9
At 5:00 AM on Wednesday morning, the rain had cleared, leaving behind a sharp, frozen mist that hung low over the Hudson River.
Outside the rear carriage house of the Garrison estate, an armored convoy of four matte-black Cadillac Escalades sat idling in a diamond formation, their heavy engines rumbling with muffled, disciplined power.
I walked down the grand stone steps of the manor, wrapped in a tailored dark-green wool coat Mrs. Gable had procured from Manhattan at midnight, my dark hair styled in an elegant chignon, my chin lifted with quiet, unbending dignity.
Walking beside me was Adrian Blackwood, dressed in an impeccably tailored black three-piece suit beneath a heavy black cashmere overcoat, his presence commanding immediate, breathless silence across the twelve-man security detail.
Carried securely in Dr. Sarah Lin’s leather medical briefcase was the certified, holographic-sealed ultrasound dossier from the clinic, along with three legal paternity charters signed in triplicate.
"We take the Taconic Parkway," Marcus instructed through the tactical radio as we climbed into the central armored cabin. "Route 9 has heavy commercial traffic near Peekskill. Stay tight on the rear bumper."
The convoy rolled through the iron gates, descending the winding mountain road toward the highway.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was thick with focused, electric tension. Adrian sat opposite me, reviewing satellite telemetry on an encrypted tablet, while Dr. Lin monitored my blood pressure with a portable digital cuff.
"One-eighteen over seventy-six, Adrian," Dr. Lin reported. "Vitals are remarkably stable. The morning anti-nausea infusion is holding."
Suddenly, the lead Escalade let out a sharp, electronic proximity siren.
"Breach! Breach!" the lead driver’s voice barked through the tactical radio. "Commercial dump truck blocking both lanes at the northbound curve! Two black Dodge Rams approaching from the rear at seventy miles an hour!"
Before Marcus could execute an evasive maneuver, a deafening, concussive bang shattered the morning silence.
High-caliber sniper rounds struck the armored windshield of our Suburban, leaving spiderweb fractures across the multi-layered ballistic glass, but failing to penetrate the titanium framing.
The vehicle swerved violently as the driver engaged the all-wheel-drive hydraulic torque, tires screaming against wet asphalt as we hydroplaned through standing water, slamming sideways into the guardrail.
"Down!" Adrian roared, throwing his massive frame across the cabin, shielding my body with his own chest, pinning me securely into the deep leather cushions as automatic gunfire erupted from the tree line.
Bullets hammered the steel body panels like an avalanche of iron hail.
Clang-clang-clang!
"Marcus! Suppress the high ground!" Adrian commanded into his collar microphone, his baritone steady, cold, and lethal. "Execute fire-team delta! Clear the tree line!"
From the rear Escalades, eight operators in sterile black tactical armor poured onto the highway, suppressed carbines barking in synchronized, double-tap cadences.
Through the reinforced side window, I saw the two Dodge Rams attempting to box us in.
Adrian did not cower.
He unlatched the concealed side weapon port beneath the passenger door, sliding the barrel of a customized tactical carbine through the ballistic gasket.
With terrifying, mechanical precision, Adrian fired three controlled bursts through the radiator grille of the lead pursuing truck.
The Dodge Ram’s engine block detonated in a violent spray of steam, oil, and shrapnel, the heavy pickup spinning sideways across the highway before rolling twice down the steep embankment into the ravine.
The second truck panicked, cutting hard across the median, fleeing north toward Fishkill.
Silence fell over the highway, broken only by the hissing of steam from the ruined truck and the rhythmic crunch of tactical boots on wet gravel.
Adrian lowered his weapon, turning back to me.
His suit jacket was straight, his tie unruffled, his face carved from dark, unyielding stone.
He reached down, his large, warm hands gently cupping my face, his thumbs wiping away a cold bead of sweat from my temple.
"Are you hurt, Vivien?" he asked, his voice trembling with an immense, protective fury. "Did anything touch you?"
I took a deep, shuddering breath, pressing my hands against my stomach, feeling the three fragile lives still safe within me.
"We're okay, Adrian," I whispered, my voice steadying. "We're okay."
Adrian’s slate-gray eyes flashed with an apocalyptic, sovereign wrath.
May you like
He turned toward the front seat where Marcus was reloading his sidearm.
"Radio the city," Adrian commanded softly. "Tell the Harvard Club that House Blackwood is arriving thirty minutes early. And tell Frank Callahan to unseal the execution warrants."
