Chapter 12
"...Diner... Nine... Zero... repeat... traffic..."
The voice was heavily fragmented by static and atmospheric interference, but it was human, distinct, and unmistakably professional. A wave of profound relief washed over Chloe, so intense that her knees nearly buckled. She pulled the microphone closer, speaking clearly and deliberately into the metal mesh.
"This is Chloe Adams, operating alone at Diner Nine-Zero," she spoke rapidly, her voice trembling but resolute. "We are under attack by three armed men. An injured man is protecting me. The highway is flooded, but you have to send someone from the northern barracks immediately! They're trying to kill us!"
"...Copy... location... Route... Nine... mile... forty-two..." the dispatcher's voice crackled through the speaker, cutting in and out like a failing heartbeat. "...Trooper... unit... dispatched... from... district... three... ETA... twenty... minutes... hang... on..."
Twenty minutes. In the middle of a torrential storm on a washed-out mountain highway, twenty minutes felt like an eternity. But it was a lifeline. It was a concrete promise that help was finally rolling toward them through the dark.
Before Chloe could acknowledge the transmission, a deafening crash echoed from the hallway outside the walk-in room. The sound was so violent that it rattled the canned goods on the metal shelves, sending a jar of pickles tumbling to the concrete floor where it shattered with a sharp pop.
They had broken through the kitchen doors. They were inside the service hallway.
"Chloe!" a muffled, strained voice shouted from just on the other side of the thick steel door. It wasn't Julian. It was Frank’s harsh, grating rasp. "We know you're in there, little girl! Open this door right now, or we start taking pieces off your precious friend out here one by one!"
Chloe froze, her blood running cold. She looked at the heavy deadbolt holding the steel door shut. It was sturdy, but against three desperate men with industrial tools, even reinforced steel had a limit.
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"Open it!" Frank yelled again, followed immediately by the sickening thud of a heavy iron crowbar slamming directly against the center of the metal door. The impact vibrated up through the concrete floor and into Chloe’s sneakers.
She dropped the CB microphone, letting it dangle by its coiled black cord, and backed away slowly into the chilled corner of the room. Her hands shook uncontrollably, but as she brushed against the fabric of her damp apron and felt the hard edge of the data drive inside the pocket, a cold, fierce resolve settled over her. She had called the police. She had secured the evidence. All she had to do now was hold the line for twenty minutes.
