08/03/2026
Graphic Story #13: The Last Ride Through Black Creek
The prison transport wasn’t supposed to stop.
That was Rule Number One.
No stops.
No exceptions.
No excuses.
Especially not on Black Creek Road.
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Black Creek cut through eighty miles of forest, swamp, and forgotten mining country.
The kind of place where cell phones died.
The kind of place where people disappeared.
The kind of place where nobody heard gunshots unless they were holding the gun.
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At 11:42 PM, Prisoner Transport Unit 14 lost a tire.
At 11:43 PM, the driver reported a mechanical failure.
At 11:44 PM, someone killed the driver.
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The bus never made the next checkpoint.
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Three people would arrive at the scene before sunrise.
None of them worked together.
None of them trusted each other.
All of them were about to have a very bad night.
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The first was Rowan Pike.
Former prison guard.
Former corrections officer.
Current fugitive recovery specialist.
Forty years old.
Built like an old oak tree.
A man who had spent half his life transporting dangerous people and the other half hunting them when they escaped.
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The second was Tess Mercer.
Former paramedic.
Current crime-scene contractor.
She specialized in finding people after violence happened.
Usually too late.
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The third was Elijah Voss.
Former outlaw biker.
Former everything, really.
Now he worked as private security when he could and a problem-solver when he couldn’t.
He drove a black motorcycle that sounded like an approaching storm.
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The abandoned transport bus sat crooked across the road when they arrived.
Windows shattered.
Engine dead.
Driver dead.
Guard dead.
Prisoners gone.
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The forest around it was silent.
Too silent.
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Rowan studied the scene.
“Inside job.”
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Tess crouched beside the driver’s body.
“Definitely.”
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Elijah looked toward the trees.
“Still nearby.”
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Nobody asked how he knew.
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The evidence was obvious.
This wasn’t an escape.
It was an extraction.
Somebody wanted one of the prisoners badly enough to ambush an armored transport.
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The question was:
Which one?
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Tess entered the bus first.
Blood covered the interior.
Most of it belonged to the guards.
Some belonged to prisoners.
One restraint chain had been cut.
Not broken.
Cut.
Cleanly.
Professionally.
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Rowan found the manifest.
Twenty-two inmates.
One name immediately stood out.
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Marcus Creed.
Former cartel accountant.
Government witness.
Scheduled to testify in four days.
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Elijah laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it made sense.
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“There’s your answer.”
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Someone wasn’t willing to risk Creed reaching court.
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A distant gunshot echoed through the forest.
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Everyone froze.
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Then came another.
Closer.
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And another.
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Tess looked up.
“That’s not hunting.”
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“No.”
Rowan chambered a round into his shotgun.
“That’s cleanup.”
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The three followed the sound into the woods.
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The deeper they went, the worse things became.
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Bodies.
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Escaped inmates.
Dead.
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Some shot.
Some stabbed.
Some executed.
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Whoever organized the extraction wasn’t rescuing witnesses.
They were removing witnesses.
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A trail of blood led toward an abandoned mining operation hidden in the hills.
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The Black Creek Mine.
Closed thirty years ago after a tunnel collapse killed twenty-seven workers.
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Locals still avoided it.
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Tonight it was crowded.
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Lights glowed inside the old processing buildings.
Vehicles filled the lot.
Armed men patrolled the perimeter.
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A private army.
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Rowan counted at least thirty.
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Elijah counted more.
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Tess looked at both of them.
“You boys got a plan?”
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“No.”
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“Nope.”
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“Fantastic.”
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The first guard died quietly.
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Elijah handled that.
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The second went down to Rowan’s shotgun.
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The third met Tess’s tire iron.
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After that…
Subtlety ended.
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Gunfire erupted across the mining yard.
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Floodlights snapped on.
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Men shouted.
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Bullets chewed through rusted machinery.
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The mine exploded into chaos.
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Rowan fought like a man who had spent decades dealing with violent idiots.
Efficient.
Brutal.
Relentless.
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Tess used whatever she could reach.
Pipes.
Chains.
Tools.
Broken equipment.
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Elijah preferred direct solutions.
Most of them involved hitting people until they stopped being problems.
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The battle pushed toward the central processing building.
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Inside, Marcus Creed was still alive.
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Handcuffed to a chair.
Beaten.
Terrified.
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Across from him sat the man behind everything.
Victor Salazar.
Cartel lieutenant.
Professional cleaner.
The man tasked with making witnesses disappear.
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Salazar looked annoyed when the fighting reached him.
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“You had one job,” he told his guards.
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Nobody answered.
Most of them were unconscious.
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The door exploded inward.
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Rowan entered first.
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Elijah entered second.
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Tess entered third carrying a wrench she absolutely should not have been carrying.
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Salazar sighed.
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The fight lasted less than thirty seconds.
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Salazar was dangerous.
Experienced.
Ruthless.
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But not dangerous enough.
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Eventually he hit the concrete.
Hard.
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And stayed there.
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Marcus Creed looked around.
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“You people police?”
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The three warriors stared at him.
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“No.”
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“Not even close.”
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Outside, sirens approached.
For real this time.
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The private army scattered.
The operation collapsed.
The witness survived.
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Black Creek Road claimed many people over the years.
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Tonight it claimed a criminal empire.
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As dawn broke over the forest, Rowan climbed into his truck.
Tess headed toward her SUV.
Elijah fired up his motorcycle.
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Three strangers.
Three different lives.
One long night.
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The road swallowed them one by one.
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And somewhere deep inside the abandoned mine…
A forgotten tunnel door stood slightly open.
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Behind it sat stacks of cash.
Weapons.
Ledgers.
Secrets.
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Waiting for the next bad decision to find them.
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END OF GRAPHIC STORY #13: THE LAST RIDE THROUGH BLACK CREEK 🚔🌲🩸⛏️
