The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 459

Chapter 225-2

the opposite ridge, Brick doesn’t wait. He hits the detonator switch.

A string of C4 charges buried along the timber bridge blows outward in a blinding, vertical flash of orange fire and shattering oak timber.

The explosion sounds like a thunderclap trapped in a small room, rattling the teeth in my jaw. The entire rear of the haul road sags, splintering into thousands of flying shards before collapsing down into the thirty-foot chasm below.

The trailing SUV, riding too close to the rear transport’s bumper, drops backward into the ravine, slamming roof-first onto the boulders below with a sickening crunch.

“Execute! Execute!” I yell into the mic, dropping my cheek to the cold cheek-rest of the stock. “Take

them!”

The darkness shatters. The night explodes into absolute, unadulterated chaos.

“Suppressing fire on the cab!” Mayhem bellows, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.

Down in the cut, the lead box truck tries to reverse, but the second transport has already slammed into its rear bumper, locking the heavy steel bodies together in a jackknife. Smoke instantly begins pouring from the burning tires, white and thick, smelling of scorched rubber.

From the high rocks, Rook unloads two heavy slugs from his tactical shotgun straight through the roof of the middle transport’s cab, punching clean through the metal sheets.

Inside the convoy, men are screaming over the roar of trapped engines, doors flying open as they spill out into the dirt, weapons raised blind toward the dark ridges above.

“Keep them pinned in the middle!” I roar, firing a three-round burst that drops a guy as his boots hit the road. “Hammer, take out the rear truck’s axles! Don’t let them push back toward the gap!”

Hammer racks another massive casing into the chamber, the heavy brass clattering against the

rock ledge beside him, already smelling of burnt cordite.

“Locked on,” he grunts. “Got it.”

Across the gorge, Brick’s voice cuts through the tactical net, sharp and steady despite the roar of

small-arms fire echoing off the quarry face:

“Bridge is completely clear. Gap is thirty feet wide and holding. The rear transport’s tail end is hanging right over the edge.”

“Hold your angle, Brick,” I say, tracking two more Howlers in matching tactical vests scrambled

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behind the lead truck’s rear duals. “I need to get these guys out of the way.”

squeeze the trigger twice, putting two fast suppressed rounds through the driver-side door frame, knocking both targets dead into the gravel.

The heat rising from the shattered bridge begins to distort the air down in the trench. Black oil and diesel spill out across the cracked pavement, running in dark, iridescent ribbons into the drainage

ditches.

It’s surprising that the Howlers are disciplined enough to establish a staggered line under the

shadow of the second truck’s undercarriage, returning high-angle automatic fire up toward our

hiding places.

Rounds begin chewing into the rock face directly beneath us. Chunks of gray granite explode into razor-sharp shrapnel, buzzing past my head with ugly, metallic snaps.

“They’re zeroing the crest!” Mayhem shouts, ducking his head as a five-round sweep of bullets cuts a pine branch clean off above his head, showering his shoulders in needles. “They’ve got night vision… they’re picking up our thermal profiles against the bare rock!”

“Byte, talk to me,” I snap, shifting my weight to drag a fresh thirty-round magazine from my chest rig, slapping it home with the heel of my gloved palm. “What’s their rear guard doing?”

“Rear guard is dead in the ravine,” Byte’s voice comes back. “The SUV that fell with the bridge structure is completely silent. But heads up: the middle transport’s side door just swung open. They aren’t trying to fix the vehicles. They’re staging heavy cases on the asphalt.”

I lean back up over the mud lip, bringing my optic back to my eye. Through the green haze, I see three MC guys dragging heavy, reinforced cases out of the side hatch of the second box truck.

And it hits me:

They’re setting up a heavy belt-fed machine gun straight on a tripod right in the middle of the road.

“Hammer! Middle road, center tripod!” I yell into the mic. “Strip that gunner before he sets the gun

up!”

“Working on it,” Hammer growls. The massive fifty-caliber rifle booms again, the muzzle blast

blowing a wide crescent of damp pine needles off the ridge.

Down in the canyon, the high-explosive round hits the contractor holding the tripod, vaporizing his upper torso and punching through the steel side door of the middle box truck behind him.

The heavy gun falls sideways into the mud, its ammunition belt spilling across the wet asphalt like

a metal snake.

THU

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