Chapter 8 - The Ram at the Gate
The Ford F-150 rattled and groaned as its reinforced steel bumper smashed through the final chain-link barrier of Site Delta-4. Snow flew in sheets from the spinning rear tires as Caleb slammed the truck into reverse, backed away from the twisted wreckage of the gate, and shifted back into drive. His chest still ached from the taser prongs, a dull, deep throb that radiated outward with every beat of his heart, but adrenaline had completely burned away the pain.
On the passenger seat lay the brass dog tag Arthur had dropped on the diner floor, alongside a heavy iron crowbar he had grabbed from his tool chest.
Caleb slammed his foot on the gas, hurtling the truck down the rutted concrete access road toward the massive, domed blast doors of the underground facility. Through the blowing sleet, he could see the amber taillights of the black suburban parked right in front of the personnel entrance.
"You're not taking him," Caleb muttered to himself, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
Inside the suburban, Lawrence cursed under his breath, tossing the tablet onto the passenger seat. He grabbed the radio handset from the dash.
"Team One, intercept that truck! Do not let him near the blast doors!" Lawrence barked into the mic.
The two operatives who had been guarding the perimeter emerged from the shadows of the concrete bunker, their heavy tactical flashlights cutting blinding beams through the swirling snow. They raised their weapons, shouting commands for Caleb to cut the engine and step out of the vehicle.
Caleb didn't slow down. Instead, he flashed his high beams right into their eyes, blinding them momentarily, and veered the truck hard to the left, sliding the rear end across the icy pavement right up to the heavy steel entrance.
He killed the engine, grabbed the iron crowbar from the passenger seat, and kicked the driver’s side door open.
Before his boots even hit the frozen slush, one of the operatives tackled him from the side, sending them both crashing into a snowbank. The tactical operative was bigger, heavier, and trained in close-quarters combat, but Caleb had twenty years of framing houses and hoisting drywall behind his frame. He twisted violently, swung his elbow upward with bone-crushing force, and connected squarely with the operative’s jaw.
The man grunted, his grip loosening just enough for Caleb to wrench free. Caleb scrambled to his feet, swung the iron crowbar like a baseball bat, and caught the second operative across the shin with a sickening crack.
Lawrence burst out of the back door of the suburban, pistol drawn, his face twisted in rage. "Stop right there, Harrison, or I swear to God—"
"Drop it!" a voice echoed from the darkness behind Lawrence.
Lawrence froze. He slowly lowered the pistol and turned his head.
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Standing at the edge of the access road, illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights of an unmarked county sheriff’s cruiser that had just blocked the exit, stood Maggie. In her trembling hands, she wasn't holding a weapon—she was holding a live-streaming smartphone, its screen broadcasting every second to an audience that had now crossed four hundred thousand live viewers.
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