Chapter 3 - The Blast
I did not waste a single second thinking about the ticking noise. I threw myself out of the open driver’s side door just as the dashboard clock flipped to the next minute. The rented pickup truck exploded into a massive fireball that shattered every window on the first floor of the motel. The concussive shockwave picked me up and threw me violently against a concrete retaining wall. My ears rang with a deafening, high-pitched whine, and the taste of ash filled my mouth. I forced myself to stay conscious, fighting through the blinding pain radiating from my ribs. Flames licked the dark night sky as the burning chassis of the truck hissed and popped. I crawled into the thick brush behind the wall and drew my sidearm with a shaky hand. Two men wearing tactical gear and black ski masks stepped out of a vehicle parked down the street. They moved slowly toward the burning wreckage with their assault rifles raised in firing position. I slowed my breathing, relying on two decades of combat training to suppress the agonizing pain in my chest. The first man kicked a piece of burning metal aside and peered into the empty driver's seat. "She is not in the vehicle," the masked man said into a radio clipped to his tactical vest. I aimed carefully from the shadows and fired a single round into the dirt directly in front of his boots. Both men jumped back in surprise, wildly searching the darkness for the source of the gunfire. "Drop your weapons and kick them away, or the next round goes through your kneecaps," I shouted. They hesitated for a fraction of a second, but my laser sight flickered across the chest of the lead gunman. The heavy rifles hit the pavement with a metallic clatter, and they kicked them toward the burning truck. I stepped out of the brush, keeping my weapon steady and perfectly leveled at their heads. "Who ordered you to plant the explosive?" I demanded while closing the distance between us. The second man laughed nervously and raised his empty hands in the air. "Wade Cain owns this entire town, lady, and he said you were a loose end," the man confessed quickly. I ordered them to lie face down on the ground and used their own zip-ties to bind their wrists. I searched their pockets and found a set of keys to the black sedan they had driven to the scene. I left them in the dirt, climbed into their stolen vehicle, and punched the GPS coordinates into the navigation system. The screen illuminated a route leading deep into the Appalachian foothills to an abandoned logging camp. It was a heavily wooded area known for deep ravines and zero cellular reception. I drove aggressively, pushing the engine to its limits on the winding mountain roads. The dashboard clock indicated I had less than twenty minutes before Wade Cain executed his ultimate plan. I killed the headlights a mile before the destination and navigated the final stretch using only the pale moonlight. I hid the car in a thick grove of pine trees and proceeded on foot toward the glow of industrial floodlights. The logging camp was heavily fortified with private mercenaries patrolling the perimeter fences. In the center of the camp, Sheriff Harper was dragging my mother out of an armored transport van. Captain Miller was on his knees in the mud, bleeding from a deep cut above his left eye. Wade Cain stood over them holding a silver briefcase and a customized heavy revolver. I silently scaled a tall oak tree at the edge of the clearing to establish a tactical vantage point. I lined up the perfect shot on Wade’s chest, ready to end the nightmare once and for all. Before I could pull the trigger, the trunk of the Sheriff's cruiser popped open from the inside. Travis Cain crawled out of the trunk, holding a detonator switch wired to a vest strapped across his own chest.
