Chapter 4 - THE ROAD TO ALEXANDRIA
The black suburban smelled of ozone, gun oil, and rain. Agent Kane sat in the passenger seat beside the driver, an NCIS tactical operator whose eyes never left the rear-view mirror. Behind us, two additional armored utility vehicles maintained a precise staggered formation, their low-beam headlights carving through the humid Carolina mist. My torn uniform was stiff with dried sweat and road grime, but the cold weight of the evidence briefcase strapped to the floorboard between my combat boots anchored every nerve in my spine.
"Your collarbone has a hairline fracture, Commander," Kane said without turning around. He was watching his tablet, the blue glow illuminating the tight lines around his mouth. "Corpsman at the station wanted to sling your arm. You're running on pure adrenaline."
"Adrenaline will last until Alexandria," I replied. I adjusted my cuffs, ignoring the sharp, thumping ache radiating from my shoulder down to my fingertips. "What’s the status on Vance?"
"Locked down in the federal brig at Camp Lejeune alongside Maddox," Kane stated coldly. "State troopers tried to challenge jurisdiction thirty minutes ago. Claimed Harlan Vance was an elected constitutional officer entitled to county detention. Captain Reynolds personally informed the state attorney general that Vance is an unindicted co-conspirator in a treason and defense procurement fraud scheme. That shut them down."
I looked out the heavily tinted window. The two-lane highway cut through suffocating stands of loblolly pines. This was the corridor Vance had controlled for twenty-four years—a stretch of dark asphalt where out-of-state plates were bled dry, where naval convoys mysteriously experienced bureaucratic delays, and where millions of dollars in stolen military hardware had simply vanished into the salt marshes.
Suddenly, the driver tapped the console. "Lead vehicle, we have anomalous traffic closing fast from the secondary access road. Marker forty-two."
I leaned forward. Through the windshield, beyond our lead escort, two pairs of high-intensity halogen lights cut through the tree line. They weren't police cruisers. They were lifted, heavy-duty pickups, stripped of plates, their bull bars reinforced with heavy welded steel.
"Comms check," Kane snapped into his tactical headset. "Convoy Eagle, tighten pattern. Threat approaching our six and starboard."
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The radio crackled with static, then a sharp pop hissed over the line. A voice, hoarse and frantic, cut through the frequency: *"Eagle Lead, this is rear security! We have a breach—they’ve got road spikes across the bridge at Cedar Creek!"*
Before Kane could answer, the rear suburban swerved violently. Through the back glass, I watched red taillights spin into a wild drift as tire blowout sparks lit the asphalt like firecrackers. Vance may have been in chains, but his payroll extended far beyond the county line. The men who owned him had just realized what was inside my briefcase, and they were willing to turn Highway 17 into a free-fire zone.
