Chapter 105 - THE AMBUSH AT THE TOLLGATE
They did not take the highway.
Old Sal navigated the back roads of Orange County, keeping the bread truck beneath the cover of secondary county routes and winding farm lanes that cut through dormant apple orchards and snow-covered pastures. The bread truck groaned under the strain, its steering linkage rattling violently whenever the tires hit frozen ruts, but Sal drove with the calm, immovable discipline of an old smuggler who had outlived three generations of federal marshals.
In the back of the van, Elena sat with Sofia, using a clean towel from the bakery kit to gently wash the mud from the child’s cheeks. Sofia sat quietly, watching Elena’s face with a soft, searching gaze.
"Elena?" the girl asked softly.
Elena paused, the damp cloth hovering in her hand. "Yes, sweetie?"
"Are you going to stay with us?" Sofia asked, her voice carrying a fragile, innocent vulnerability that pierced Elena’s heart. "When we find Mommy... are you still going to be our Elena?"
Elena felt a hot prickle of tears behind her eyelids, but she swallowed them down, offering the child a warm, radiant smile that defied the cold steel of the truck. She reached out and tucked a dark curl behind Sofia’s ear.
"I'm not going anywhere, Sofia," Elena promised, her voice firm and absolute. "Your father and I made a deal at Table 12, remember? We take care of each other. Always."
Sofia smiled—a tiny, luminous expression that made her look like the daughter of the sun—and leaned her head against Elena’s shoulder.
Up front, Dante sat with his carbine resting across his knees, watching the winding tarmac ahead.
"We're approaching the old Bear Mountain tollgate, Boss," Sal announced quietly, his foot easing toward the brake. "The turnpike has been closed since the November ice storms. The state put up concrete barriers across the main lanes, but there’s a service gap near the maintenance shed."
Dante leaned forward, his gray-green eyes narrowing as he scanned the tree line ahead.
The old toll plaza sat nestled in a deep rock cut between two sheer granite cliffs. The rusted iron toll booths were abandoned, their windows boarded up, covered in thick sheets of winter moss. A single yellow flashing caution light swung from an overhead cable, casting long, erratic amber shadows across the snow-drifted tarmac.
"Slow down, Sal," Dante murmured.
"Something wrong, Dante?"
"The snow in the service lane," Dante pointed out, his finger tracing the line of the windshield. "It’s packed. Two vehicles went through that gap less than twenty minutes ago."
Before Sal could drop the transmission into reverse, the world detonated into violence.
From behind the concrete abutment of the eastern toll booth, a heavy black pickup truck surged forward, its high-beam halogens blinding the cab in an instant of dazzling white light. The steel cattle guard on its front bumper slammed into the bread truck’s front quarter panel with a concussive, bone-jarring crash.
Metal shrieked. The bread truck spun forty-five degrees, its rear end slamming hard against the granite cliff wall, showering the road in sparks and pulverized limestone.
"Hold on!" Dante roared, throwing his shoulder against the dashboard to brace himself as a second vehicle—a black Dodge Charger—screeched around the western booth, blocking their retreat.
May you like
Four men in tactical black overcoats leaped from the pickup, raising short-barreled automatic shotguns.
They didn't shout. They didn't issue commands. They opened fire instantly, heavy lead slugs tearing through the yellow sheet metal of the truck’s hood, obliterating the radiator in a cloud of scalding white steam.
