Chapter 57 - Ambush at the Crossing
The roar of automatic gunfire ripped through the serene Maine forest, splintering the cabin’s heavy pine logs into jagged debris.
"Down!" Jonathan barked, shielding Lily with his entire body as drywall and insulation rained over them.
Cole leaned out from behind the stone hearth, firing disciplined three-round bursts through the shattered front window. The dull thuds of returning fire signaled suppressed submachine guns—professional, silent killers moving in tactical formation. A mercenary fell in the snow outside, but two more immediately bounded across the frozen riverbank to flank the rear.
"Finch, move!" Cole shouted.
The old lawyer scrambled toward the back cellar door, but a stray round tore through the thin kitchen wall, striking him squarely in the chest. Finch collapsed with a choked gasp, his fingers clutching uselessly at his wound.
"Jonathan! Take the girl and go!" Cole roared, dropping an empty magazine and slapping a fresh one home. "I'll cover the rear exit! Head for the snowmobiles in the shed behind the tree line!"
"I'm not leaving you, Cole!"
"You don't have a choice!" Cole returned fire, suppressing the two operatives advancing along the porch. "If they get their hands on Lily, it’s game over! Run, dammit!"
Jonathan didn't hesitate any longer. Grabbing Lily tightly against his chest, he kicked open the rear kitchen door and plunged into the blinding sleet.
The cold bit into his face like broken glass. Ahead, fifty yards through knee-deep drifts, sat an old corrugated tin shed. Behind him, the roar of a fragmentation grenade tore through the cabin, followed by the vicious chatter of Cole’s rifle fighting an impossible rear-guard action.
A black-clad operative rounded the corner of the shed, weapon raised.
Jonathan didn't stop running. Drawing his Glock with his free right hand, he fired three shots through the storm. The first two struck the operative's tactical vest; the third found the throat. The man collapsed into the crimson-stained snow.
Jonathan reached the shed, kicked open the warped wooden door, and shoved Lily onto the seat of an old Yamaha snowmobile. The keys hung in the ignition, left there by Finch for emergencies.
He turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed, and roared to life.
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Just as Jonathan swung his leg over the seat, a heavy rifle butt slammed violently into his left shoulder, knocking him into the frozen dirt.
***
