Chapter 23 - The Ambush at Mile Marker 142
On Tuesday morning at 6:15 AM, a heavy autumn fog rolled over the rolling hills of west-central Wisconsin. Visibility along Interstate 90 was reduced to less than two hundred yards, the asphalt slick with freezing drizzle.
A white, reinforced Department of Corrections transport van, flanked by an unmarked black Chevrolet Suburban, moved steadily westbound through the mist near Mile Marker 142. Inside the transport cage in the rear of the van, Tyler Holloway sat shackled in heavy steel chains, wearing an orange jumpsuit and a thermal prison jacket.
Tyler’s heart was hammering against his ribs in frantic, manic triumph. For eighteen months, he had scrubbed grease from laundry machines, swallowed the bitter insults of guards, and endured the humiliation of his stripped rank. But in three minutes, the nightmare was supposed to end. His contact in Gary had confirmed that the road would be blocked, the extraction team was in position, and the Learjet was idling on the tarmac with its engines warm.
Suddenly, a massive flatbed timber truck swerved from the opposite lane, skidding across the grassy median and jackknifing directly across both westbound lanes, blocking the highway with twenty tons of steel and cedar logs!
The black Suburban escort slammed on its brakes, tires screeching across the wet pavement.
From the tree line along the highway shoulder, two gray tactical vans accelerated onto the asphalt, boxing the prison transport van in from the rear. Six heavily armed operatives wearing black tactical gear, helmets, and ceramic plate carriers poured out of the vans, deploying high-density white smoke canisters that instantly enveloped the scene in an opaque, blinding cloud.
"Breach the rear doors! Get Holloway out!" a mercenary commander barked through his tactical throat mic, running toward the prison van with a battery-powered hydraulic spreader.
Inside the rear cage, Tyler laughed aloud—a wild, hysterical sound of wicked delight. "I'm coming, Audrey!" he gloated to the empty walls. "I'm coming for my boy!"
The mercenary jammed the hydraulic tips into the door seam of the transport van. With a violent screech of tearing steel, the rear doors flew open.
"Holloway! Move your ass!" the operative shouted, reaching inside.
The smoke parted.
Tyler didn't see terrified federal marshals trembling in their seats.
Sitting inside the reinforced cabin were six operators from the Federal Bureau of Investigation Hostage Rescue Team (HRT), clad in full tactical combat gear, their suppressed carbines leveled directly at the mercenary's chest.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS OR DIE WHERE YOU STAND!" a booming voice commanded through a loudspeaker.
Before the mercenary could even blink, a concussion flashbang detonated in the opening with an earth-shattering CRACK-BOOM!
The operative was thrown backward onto the asphalt, clutching his ringing ears. Simultaneously, forty heavily armed federal tactical vehicles and state police cruisers—which had been staging silently behind an abandoned highway weigh station two miles back—roared onto the interstate with blinding red and blue LED lightbars blazing!
The extraction team was surrounded within ten seconds flat.
"DROP IT! ON THE GROUND! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS!"
The mercenaries, realizing they had driven headfirst into a textbook military counter-ambush, dropped their rifles onto the wet pavement and fell to their knees with their hands raised in total surrender.
Inside the van, Tyler Holloway froze. His laughter died in his throat, replaced by a strangling, suffocating gasp of pure horror.
The side door of the command Suburban parked twenty feet away slid open.
Stepping out onto the wet asphalt, dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat and leather gloves, was Captain Brian Miller. Beside him walked United States Attorney Marcus Reed.
Brian walked slowly through the dissipating smoke, stopping right at the open rear doors of the prison van. He looked down at the chained, trembling felon cowering on the metal bench.
"Looking for a flight, Tyler?" Brian asked, his deep baritone dripping with absolute, freezing contempt. "Your Learjet in Gary was seized by federal marshals forty minutes ago. Your Panamanian escrow accounts were liquidated by the Department of Justice at sunrise. You aren't flying to South America. You're going to ADX Florence."
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Tyler shrieked, thrashing violently against his chains, spitting saliva and tears as he banged his forehead against the iron cage: "NO! NO! IT’S MY MONEY! AUDREY STOLE MY LIFE! AUDREY—!"
Brian didn't flinch. He turned his back on the screaming traitor, gesturing to the federal marshals. "Take the garbage out."
