Interstate 77 spans 613.41 miles (~987 km), stretching from Cleveland, Ohio, in the north to Columbia, South Carolina, in the south.
Ronnie's mother's earliest arrest record was in Mineral Springs, a small town in North Carolina near the highway's southern end and just under 100 km from Columbia. As a satellite town of Charlotte, Mineral Springs was the team's next destination.
After temporarily splitting off from Jubal and Alice in Marietta, Jack and the rest of the team traveled south in two Suburbans, taking nearly a full day to reach Charlotte. The group took their time, stopping periodically to check in with local state police, subtly applying pressure to ensure cooperation.
This method was necessary. Federal and local cooperation often came with... challenges. States like Pennsylvania and West Virginia, where crimes had occurred, took the case more seriously, as did Ohio, given its proximity. But states further south, like North Carolina—with relatively lower crime rates—were less engaged.
Charlotte, North Carolina's largest city, had the state's highest crime rate, yet its annual shooting incidents barely crossed the 100-mark. This spoke volumes about the overall safety of the state.
Just past midday, as they reached Charlotte's city center, Jack suggested a break. With only 30 kilometers left to Mineral Springs, they had time to regroup.
Aubrey, ever the wealthy gourmand, scrolled through his phone before offering to treat everyone to lunch. Grateful but exhausted, the team didn't argue. They parked the Suburbans outside a well-known Mexican restaurant and settled in.
The blistering summer heat made spicy Mexican food oddly comforting, reminiscent of eating hotpot on a sweltering day. Not every dish was spicy, though—grilled asparagus with cheese and honey-glazed chicken offered milder options.
Hannah, whose palate Jack had spoiled, winced at a cactus and roasted pepper salad. JJ, far less picky, casually munched on avocado salad without batting an eye. Meanwhile, Clay and Jack quietly pushed cilantro off their plates with their forks, both disliking the herb.
As the team ate, a police car sped past, its siren wailing. Initially, no one paid much attention. But soon, a second and then a third patrol car followed, lights flashing. Even Aubrey, busy stuffing his face, looked up from his plate.
Moments later, more patrol cars screamed by. The escalating number drew murmurs from diners, who began peering nervously out the restaurant's windows.
Jack and JJ exchanged a glance. JJ immediately pulled out her phone, stepping aside to make a call. When she returned, her expression was grim.
"A fugitive apprehension team, led by the U.S. Marshals, just ran into trouble less than a kilometer from here," she said, lowering her voice.
Fugitive apprehension wasn't exclusive to the FBI. Other federal agencies, like the U.S. Marshals Service, frequently formed joint task forces to track and capture specific or high-priority fugitives.
The FBI's team focused on federal fugitives, while the Marshals prioritized escaped prisoners and parole violators.
While the team ate lunch, a task force comprising eight officers—two U.S. Marshals, two North Carolina Department of Corrections officers, and four Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department (CMPD) officers—was ambushed while attempting to arrest a fugitive on the 5200 block of Galway Street, just one kilometer east of the restaurant.
"Details are sparse, but according to officers on the scene, the task force may have been completely wiped out," JJ said grimly.
Jack immediately stood and wiped his hands with a napkin, motioning for Aubrey to settle the bill. They couldn't ignore this situation—it was practically on their doorstep.
The FBI's fugitive task force hadn't worked closely with the Marshals yet, but as fellow federal officers, assisting in emergencies was an unspoken duty. If the rumors of a total team loss proved true, the incident would dominate national headlines.
Police fatalities weren't uncommon in the U.S.—with incidents scattered across the country every few days—but a federal task force being wiped out was unprecedented. The last comparable incident was the infamous Waco Siege, when four ATF agents were killed during a standoff with a heavily armed cult.
If this ambush resulted in eight casualties, it would double the body count, prompting presidential-level attention.
Exiting the restaurant, the team popped open the Suburbans' trunks. Diners seated near the glass storefront stared in shock as the team pulled out weapons and donned tactical gear.
Jack slipped on a heavy-duty bulletproof vest with bright yellow "FBI" lettering while issuing orders. "Contact Jubal. Tell him to inform the Marshals and CMPD that we'll be on-site in ten minutes to assist."
Clay handed a loaded Noveske N4 carbine to a visibly disoriented Aubrey, who was still processing how quickly lunch had escalated into a potential firefight.
Hannah, accustomed to chaotic situations after working with Jack, calmly prepared her equipment. JJ, though less seasoned, had faced her share of horrors—including an encounter with a cannibalistic serial killer. Aubrey, however, was visibly out of his depth.
Jack adjusted his noise-canceling tactical headset, silently lamenting their earlier decision to split up. If their mobile command vehicle had been closer, they could've immediately established a high-level data link and taken command of the situation.
Once everyone was geared up, the Suburbans roared back onto the road, sirens blaring. Inside, phones buzzed incessantly as updates poured in.
The ambush occurred as the task force attempted to execute a felony warrant for Terry Hughes Jr., a 39-year-old African-American with a staggering criminal record.
Since his first arrest at 16 for assaulting his father, Hughes had amassed 49 charges over 20 years, including armed robbery, drug manufacturing and possession, illegal firearms possession, and parole violations.
"He's been charged 49 times and only served two short sentences in 2011 and 2013? What's wrong with this state's justice system?" Clay exclaimed in disbelief.
Aubrey shrugged. "Be glad you're with the FBI. Local departments often deal with scumbags like this—arrested one day, back on the streets the next."
Hannah and JJ weren't surprised either. In smaller cities or areas with "good" reputations, corruption often ran deep. Bail bond companies worked hand-in-hand with courts, facilitating a revolving door for criminals.
Jack parked the Suburban a few blocks from the scene. Gunfire crackled in the distance, clear even over the cacophony of sirens.
When the team arrived, the chaos was palpable. Police had yet to set up proper barricades. Two CMPD patrol cars were attempting to block the road, their officers scrambling to assess the situation.
As the Suburbans pulled up, the officers seemed stunned to see a fully armed FBI team stepping out.
Jack adjusted his vest and approached the nearest officer, flashing his badge. "Special Agent Jack. FBI Fugitive Task Force. What's the situation?"
The officer, wide-eyed, stammered, "Uh… we're trying to contain it, but... it's a war zone out there. They've got automatics. Everyone's down..."
Jack's jaw tightened. "Not anymore. We're here to help."
Turning to his team, Jack gave the signal: "Let's move."
(End of Chapter)
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