Chapter 17 - Route 9 at 80 MPH
The red Ford F-250 tore down Route 9, its high beams cutting twin shafts of yellow light through the torrential downpour.
Julian sat behind the wheel, his right hand gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. His left arm was bound tight against his ribs with a strip of seatbelt fabric he’d cut with his scraper.
Beside him in the passenger seat, Dr. Nathan Sterling was handcuffed to the heavy steel grab handle above the door, his head slumping against the window frame, a dark smear of blood marking the glass every time the truck hit a pothole.
"You can't drive with one hand, son," Sterling rasped, his eyes barely open. "You're going to flip us on the hairpin at Miller’s Creek."
Julian didn't look at him. He jammed his boot harder onto the gas pedal. The speedometer needle passed eighty-five, flicking toward ninety.
The engine roared, the heavy V8 engine vibrating through the floorboards. To Julian’s hypersensitive thính giác, the sound wasn't just noise—it was a terrifying cacophony of exploding fuel, scraping pistons, and screaming rubber that felt like hot needles pressing against his eardrums.
He didn't care. The pain kept him awake.
"Where is the master key for the centrifuge room?" Julian asked, his voice flat, devoid of any pitch or inflection.
"In my coat pocket," Sterling muttered, letting out a dry, rattling laugh. "But the key won't help you, Julian. The lock is dual-custody. It requires two digital keycards swiped within three seconds of each other. Mine... and Miller's."
Julian’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
Two miles back on the dark highway, a pair of dark, unlit headlights opened up, closing the distance fast.
Not a police cruiser. A heavy, black commercial tow truck with a steel bull-bar mounted on the front bumper.
Miller.
"He was watching the highway from the water tower," Sterling said, a faint smile touching his bloody lips. "He saw you take the truck. Miller doesn't care about the research, Julian. He just wants the five hundred thousand dollars I promised him for clearing the site."
The black tow truck surged forward, its high beams suddenly flashing on, blinding Julian in the rearview mirror.
The heavy steel bumper slammed into the back of the F-250 with a deafening CRUNCH.
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The pickup fishtailed violently on the slick, rain-soaked asphalt, the rear tires spinning out of control toward the steep cliff face overlooking Miller’s Ravine.
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