He radioed ahead to a stationary checkpoint near the county line, ordering them to deploy a spike strip. He wanted this “bitch” stopped at any cost. Twenty miles of high-speed chaos passed in a blur of burning rubber and screaming engines.
Up ahead, Sarah saw the flashing lights of the roadblock. The trap was closing. Two more cruisers were parked across the lanes, and a dark line—the spike strip—was stretched across the asphalt. She had seconds to choose. Going off-road at 100 mph into the trees was a death sentence.
Turning around was impossible. She tried to thread the needle by dipping onto the gravel shoulder, but the deputies had anticipated the move. Four sharp pops rang out as the hollow steel spikes shredded her heavy-duty tires.
The Tahoe bucked and swayed as the rims ground into the pavement. Sarah fought the steering wheel, managing to bring the vehicle to a controlled stop in the ditch rather than flipping it. A thick cloud of dust and acrid smoke enveloped the SUV. For a moment, there was only the sound of ticking metal and hissing air. Then, the sound of heavy boots on gravel.
The three patrol cars formed a semi-circle around the disabled Tahoe, their high beams blinding Sarah. Vance, Dixon, and Reed stepped out, weapons drawn. Vance, his voice shaking with rage, ordered her out of the vehicle with her hands up.
Two more deputies from the roadblock joined them, five armed men against one woman. Sarah sat perfectly still, her hands on the wheel. She was processing the tactical reality: five shooters, no exit, and a mission-critical folder in the seat next to her.
She knew dozens of ways to disable a man, but those techniques required an opening. Right now, she needed to survive to protect the documents. She slowly raised her hands. When she stepped out of the Tahoe, her face was a mask of cold stone. The contrast between her slight frame and the aura of command she projected made the deputies hesitate for a heartbeat. Vance stepped forward, his boots crunching on the glass.
He loomed over her, smelling of stale coffee and cheap cigarettes. He asked her if she thought she was special, his eyes roaming over her in a way that made her skin crawl. Dixon and Reed flanked her, blocking any path to the woods. Sarah reached into her pocket, pulled out her military ID, and held it out firmly.
She identified herself as Major Miller, Army Intelligence, on a secure mission. She demanded they contact her commanding officer immediately. Her voice was level, devoid of the panic they expected. But Vance didn’t even look at the ID. He backhanded it out of her hand, sending the silver and green card fluttering into the mud.
