Chapter 17 - The Wolves of the Mountain
“You little bitch!” Miller screamed, recovering his balance and lunging across the dark mine floor toward where the shotgun had fallen.
I didn't try to run deeper into the dark, dead-end mine shafts, and I knew I couldn't drag the heavy bolted chair out into the snowstorm.
I gripped the oak handle of the mining hammer with two hands, braced my feet against the rocky floor, and swung the iron head with everything I had left.
The blunt, square face of the iron hammer caught Miller directly across his right shoulder with a sickening, bone-crushing impact.
He let out a ragged shriek of agony, spinning sideways as the force of the blow dislocated his shoulder joint and sent him crashing into the rock wall.
He collapsed onto the dirt floor, clutching his useless, dangling right arm while his bloodshot eyes stared up at me in shock and disbelief.
For twenty years, he had viewed me as a helpless, fragile bird that he could manipulate, terrify, and control from the shadows of my life.
He had never expected his prey to turn around and strike back with the brutal, survivalist fury of a cornered mountain predator.
“You ruined my childhood!” I screamed, my voice echoing off the damp granite walls of the silver mine with terrifying power.
“You watched me sleep! You terrorized my family! And you are never going to touch another little girl as long as you live!”
I raised the heavy iron mining hammer high above my head, stepping toward where he lay groveling on the freezing mine floor.
Miller scrambled backward like a crab, his boots kicking up loose silver ore as he retreated toward the dark entrance of the tunnel.
“Wait! Don't kill me, Sarah!” he whimpered, holding his remaining good hand up in front of his face in pathetic, cowardly supplication.
Before I could bring the hammer down to end his miserable life, the sudden, brilliant glare of three tactical halogen searchlights flooded the mine entrance.
“FBI! Drop the weapon and get on the ground right now!” Agent Harrison’s voice boomed through a tactical megaphone from the snowy ledge outside.
Through the blinding white glare of the searchlights, I saw six heavily armed operators from the FBI Hostage Rescue Team swarming into the mine shaft.
Leading the tactical formation, holding a heavy folding knife in his right hand and looking like a vengeful mountain spirit, was David.
My fiancé didn't wait for the SWAT operators to secure the perimeter; he sprinted past the searchlights and threw himself onto his knees beside my chair.
“Sarah! Oh God, Sarah, are you okay?” David cried out, grabbing my freezing face in his hands and kissing my forehead over and over again.
He used his heavy folding knife to work at the bracket bolt holding the handcuff chain to the wooden chair, freeing my arm from the structure.
Behind us, two federal operators threw Gregory Alan Miller face-down onto the dirty mine floor, driving their heavy tactical boots into his back.
The sharp, metallic clack-clack of heavy steel handcuffs ratcheting shut around Miller’s wrists sounded like the most beautiful symphony I had ever heard.
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“We have the suspect in custody! The hostage is secure and alive!” Agent Harrison shouted into his radio, his professional composure breaking into genuine relief.
I dropped the rusted mining hammer onto the rocky floor, collapsed against David’s chest, and finally let out the tears I had been holding back for fifteen years.
