Chapter 8 - THE TRAP AT BLACKWOOD BRIDGE
The secondary road was narrow, dark, and bordered on both sides by dense forest and the swollen, raging waters of the Blackwood River.
Grant pressed his foot flat against the accelerator of the Range Rover, hitting seventy miles per hour on a winding two-lane road designed for thirty.
"Where are we going?" Natalie screamed, clutching the dashboard as the heavy vehicle hit a patch of standing water, hydroplaning dangerously before catching traction. "Grant, the police are everywhere! They'll block the highway!"
"Shut up!" Grant yelled, his eyes glued to the dark road ahead. "We have the charter boat at the Norwalk marina! The keys are in the wheelhouse! If we reach the water before they set up the roadblocks, we can be in international waters by dawn!"
"We can't make it to Norwalk!" Natalie cried out, tears streaming down her face. "She recorded everything! It's over, Grant! It's over!"
"I said shut up!" Grant struck the steering wheel with his palm.
Up ahead, the road bent sharply to the left before crossing the old iron-truss Blackwood River Bridge—a narrow, single-lane structure built in the 1940s.
As the Range Rover rounded the curve, Grant’s high beams illuminated something standing in the center of the bridge entrance.
It was a heavy, state police armored vehicle, parked sideways across the narrow iron lane.
Behind it stood four State Police cruisers, their strobe lights flashing a blinding red and blue into the rainy dark. Officers stood behind open car doors, weapons drawn and pointed directly at the approaching SUV.
"STOP THE VEHICLE!" a voice boomed over a bullhorn, echoing across the river. "STOP YOUR VEHICLE IMMEDIATELY AND PUT YOUR HANDS OUT THE WINDOW!"
Grant’s eyes went wild. "No... NO!"
Instead of hitting the brakes, Grant stomped harder on the gas pedal. The Range Rover’s engine roared, accelerating directly toward the iron barricade.
"Grant, stop!" Natalie screamed, reaching over to grab his arm. "He's going to kill us!"
"Let go of me!" Grant shoved her back into her seat with violent force.
The Range Rover hit the wet wooden planks of the bridge approach at eighty miles per hour.
Grant tried to swerve around the tail end of the police cruiser, but the vehicle’s high speed on the wet surface destroyed all steering control. The heavy SUV slammed sideways into the antique iron side-railing of the bridge.
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The rusted iron girders snapped with a deafening sound like tearing sheet metal.
The Range Rover sheared through the safety barrier, flipped twice in mid-air, and plunged down into the black, swollen, freezing waters of the Blackwood River thirty feet below.
