Chapter 5 - The Ambush at Mercer Bridge
“He burned the clinic?” Claire’s voice was white-hot with fury as she strapped Lucy into the armored vehicle’s tactical bassinet.
“Alvarez wasn't there,” Rowan said, checking the magazine of a custom .45 before sliding it into his shoulder holster. “I moved him and his team to our secondary medical bay on the south pier an hour after Cruz left. Sloane burned an empty building to send a message.”
They were in the subterranean motor pool beneath the logistics depot. Three armored Suburbans sat idling, their diesel engines rumbling like caged predators. Maddox was loading crates of tactical gear into the rear vehicle.
“Sloane’s message is simple,” Maddox said, slamming the tailgate shut. “He’s cutting off our supply lines. Alvarez had Lucy’s specific pulmonary surfactant medication stored at St. Michael's hospital downtown. If we don't pick up that batch within forty-eight hours, Lucy’s lungs could seize up. Sloane’s people are watching the hospital pharmacy.”
“Then we don't go to the hospital,” Rowan said. “We go to the pharmaceutical distributor in Mercer. I own the warehouse.”
“Mercer Bridge is a choke point, Rowan,” Maddox warned, stepping up to the driver’s side of the lead Suburban. “Sloane knows that’s the only direct route between the docks and the supply depot.”
“I know,” Rowan said calmly. “That’s why we’re taking it.”
Claire climbed into the rear seat of the center Suburban, positioning herself between Lucy’s secured seat and the reinforced door. She had pulled her hair back into a tight braid, wearing a Kevlar vest beneath her jacket that Rowan had personally adjusted for her.
“You’re using yourself as bait,” Claire said, staring at the back of Rowan’s head as he climbed into the front passenger seat.
“Victor wants me dead just as much as he wants the drive,” Rowan replied, watching the steel garage doors grind open into the gray morning mist. “If he thinks he can catch me in the open, he’ll commit his best assets. And I want those assets eliminated before we take the fight to his front door.”
The convoy rolled out into the wet streets.
The city of Mercer was an industrial graveyard of rusted rail cars, brick factories, and stagnant canals. Mercer Bridge was an ancient, double-leaf bascule bridge crossing the black waters of the canal—a rusted iron beast that groaned under the weight of heavy freight.
As the three Suburbans hit the midpoint of the bridge, the lead vehicle suddenly swerved.
A massive flatbed truck, loaded with concrete pipes, barreled out of a side alley on the far side of the span and slammed sideways across the bridge exit, blocking both lanes.
Behind them, a second dump truck backed out of a cross street, cutting off their retreat.
“Choke point closed!” Maddox shouted through the comms.
From the rusted catwalks of the old rail bridge running parallel, half a dozen men dressed in black tactical gear appeared, automatic weapons raised.
Glass shattered across the roof of Rowan’s Suburban as high-caliber rounds rained down. The armored glass spiderwebbed instantly into white, opaque fractures, holding under the onslaught.
“Stay down!” Rowan roared, twisting in his seat.
Claire threw her entire body over Lucy’s bassinet, locking her arms around the metal frame. Rounds slammed into the door panel inches from her spine, the concussive thuds vibrating through her bones.
“Maddox! Push the lead block!” Rowan barked.
The front Suburban, reinforced with an iron brush guard, slammed full throttle into the flatbed truck. The impact shook the bridge, metal screeching against metal, but the flatbed was too heavy. It held.
A tear-gas canister smashed through the rear window of the lead vehicle.
“They’re trying to flush us out!” Claire shouted over the gunfire.
Rowan kicked his door open into the storm of fire.
He didn't hesitate. Stepping out into the lee of the armored door, he leveled his rifle toward the catwalk above. Two rapid, controlled shots dropped the first sniper from the rail line into the canal below.
A heavy round ricocheted off the Suburban’s door frame, a jagged shard of metal tearing through Rowan’s upper shoulder. Blood blossomed across his gray jacket, but his aim didn't waver. A third shot took out a second shooter leaning over the rail.
“Claire! Get to the driver’s seat!” Rowan shouted, firing into an advancing squad of Sloane’s mercenaries coming from behind the dump truck.
Claire didn't freeze. She scrambled over the center console, ignoring the searing pain in her cracked ribs. Her boots hit the pedals, her hands gripping the wheel.
“The bridge control tower!” Claire screamed, pointing through the cracked windshield toward the small brick tower at the edge of the span. “If they drop the counterweight, the bridge collapses!”
One of Sloane’s men was already running up the external steel stairs of the tower, carrying an explosive charge.
Rowan saw it. If the bridge dropped, they were going forty feet down into an icy canal trapped inside three tons of armored steel.
Without a second thought, Rowan lunged forward, sprinting across open asphalt through a hail of incoming fire. A bullet grazed his thigh, throwing off his stride, but he caught the tower handrail and hoisted himself up.
The mercenary on the platform turned, bringing up a submachine gun.
Rowan closed the distance in a heartbeat, tackling the man over the rail. The two men hit the steel landing, Rowan driving his forearm across the man's windpipe and throwing the explosive charge clear into the black water below.
A loud splash echoed beneath the bridge, followed by a muffled underwater detonation that sent a plume of white spray high into the air.
Below, Claire saw two mercenaries circling Rowan’s blind spot from the bridge deck.
She slammed the Suburban into reverse. The heavy vehicle roared backward, its rear bumper smashing the first attacker into the iron bridge railing, neutralizing him instantly. The second man dove out of the way, terrified, dropping his weapon.
Rowan leaped from the lower stair rail onto the hood of Claire’s Suburban, rolled onto the pavement, and put three rapid rounds into the remaining shooter.
Silence fell over the bridge, broken only by the hiss of steam from a punctured radiator and the heavy, rhythmic panting of survivors.
Rowan walked back to the driver’s side window. His shoulder was soaked in blood, his face streaked with soot and gunpowder.
Claire rolled down the window two inches, her hands shaking on the steering wheel, her chest heaving.
Rowan looked down at her. In the back seat, Lucy was awake, blinking quietly, completely unharmed.
“You rammed a mercenary with a three-ton truck,” Rowan said, his breath hitching from the pain in his shoulder.
“He was aiming at you,” Claire said, her voice shaking with adrenaline. “And I told you—I don't run.”
Rowan looked at the woman who had crossed an ocean of misery to keep his sister’s child alive, and who had just saved his life without flinching.
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“Get in the passenger seat, Claire,” Rowan said softly. “We’re going to the safehouse.”
***
