Chapter 15 - The Ambush at the Crossing
I took the key. Marcus immediately had an affidavit drawn up, which Brenda signed under oath with a court stenographer present. We placed Brenda in a secure domestic violence safehouse outside of Westchester County, paid for out of my own account, cutting off every digital tether that Sterling could track.
By two o'clock that afternoon, Marcus and I were in my car, driving north toward Fishkill along Route 9. The sky was an ominous, bruised slate gray, threatening the first snow squall of the season.
"If Arthur Vance kept a private ledger on Douglas Sterling," Marcus said, scrolling through his tablet in the passenger seat, "it explains why Sterling was so desperate to execute the fraudulent codicil. Arthur wasn't just a partner; he was Sterling’s primary financier. If Sterling embezzled from the partnership before Arthur died, that ledger would contain proof of grand larceny and racketeering."
"Which would invalidate every claim Sterling filed against Arthur's estate," I added, gripping the steering wheel. "Meaning Emma’s trust remains completely untouched, and Sterling goes to prison for the rest of his natural life."
"Precisely."
We turned off the main highway onto an isolated secondary road that wound through the forested hills toward the Hudson Valley Depository—a private, ultra-secure vault facility popular among wealthy New York families who didn't trust commercial banks.
The road was narrow, flanked by steep embankments and thick pine forests. There were no other cars in sight.
Then, out of nowhere, the charcoal-gray sedan from Emma's school appeared in my rearview mirror.
It was accelerating fast, closing a fifty-yard gap in mere seconds.
"Marcus, hold on," I said, my voice dropping an octave as adrenaline flooded my bloodstream.
"What is it?" Marcus twisted around in his seat. "Is that—?"
*BAM!*
The heavy sedan slammed into our rear bumper with violent force. The steering wheel jerked violently in my hands, the tires screeching as the traction control kicked in against the wet asphalt. My head snapped back against the headrest, pain shooting down my neck.
"They’re ramming us!" Marcus shouted, fumbling for his phone. "Calling 911!"
The gray sedan backed off ten feet, then surged forward again, angling its reinforced front bumper toward our left rear quarter panel—the classic PIT maneuver designed to spin a vehicle out of control.
"Hang on!" I screamed.
Instead of hitting the brakes, I stomped on the accelerator. The engine of my SUV roared, pulling us forward just as the gray car lunged. The impact glanced off our rear tire instead of catching the frame. The SUV swerved wildly toward the guardrail, sparks flying as the side mirror sheared off against the galvanized steel barrier.
Up ahead, less than two hundred yards away, was the gated entrance to the Hudson Valley Depository. High concrete walls, razor wire, and two armed security guards in bulletproof vests stood outside the bullet-resistant guard shack.
The driver of the gray sedan realized where we were heading. He pulled alongside us, the passenger-side window rolling down completely. A man wearing a black ski mask raised a heavy, blunt metal object—not a gun, but a pressurized pneumatic spike launcher meant to shred our tires.
I didn't hesitate. I slammed my foot on the brake with all my strength.
The gray sedan, expecting me to try and outrun him to the gate, overshot us instantly. As his car surged ahead, I cut the wheel hard to the left, accelerated again, and rammed our steel front bull-bar directly into his rear driver-side wheel well.
The physics did the rest. The gray sedan spun completely out of control on the slick pavement, pirouetting across the two-lane road before crashing violently into a massive concrete drainage culvert. The front end crumpled like an accordion, radiator steam hissing into the cold mountain air.
I didn't stop to admire my handiwork. I floored the pedal, blasted through the opening boom gate of the Depository, and screeched to a halt right in front of the armed guards, who had already drawn their sidearms and were aiming toward the wrecked vehicle down the road.
"Call the State Police!" Marcus bellowed out his window, flashing his bar association badge. "Attempted vehicular homicide! We need immediate protection!"
As the guards moved past our battered SUV with tactical precision, I sat back in my seat, gasping for breath, my hands glued to the steering wheel.
They had tried to kill us. Sterling wasn't playing legal games anymore. The facade of the wealthy, respectable developer was completely gone.
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This was war.
***
