Chapter 3 - The Race to Save Brody
The rain began to fall in heavy, blinding sheets as three FBI SUVs tore down the winding, muddy roads surrounding the lake. I refused to stay behind at the station. Agent Rivera, recognizing that keeping me away would be impossible, allowed me to ride in the front passenger seat while another agent watched Skylar back at headquarters.
Philip tried to get into the vehicle with us, but Rivera blocked him. "You stay put, Mr. Miller. You spent the last six hours framing your wife while your mother had your son locked in a trunk. We’ll speak to you later."
The ride was an agonizing torture of seconds. Every red light, every splash of mud against the windshield felt like an eternity.
Fifteen minutes. Brody had been locked somewhere for hours alone in the dark. He was terrified of the dark. He couldn't sleep without a nightlight shaped like a blue star.
"We’re two minutes out," Rivera announced into his radio. "Prepare tactical breach. We don't know if she left an accomplice or secured the building."
The SUVs skidded to a halt in front of a rusted, overgrown wooden cabin tucked beneath towering pines at the edge of the water. The white Cadillac wasn't there, but fresh tire tracks cut deep ruts into the mud leading toward a small detached shed near the back.
Before the agents could even draw their weapons, I threw my door open and sprinted through the pouring rain.
"Jenna! Wait!" Rivera shouted, rushing after me with his flashlight drawn.
"Brody!" I screamed, my feet sliding in the mud. "Brody!"
I threw my shoulder against the heavy wooden door of the shed. It was padlocked from the outside.
From inside the dark, small space, a faint, terrified voice answered. "Mommy? Mommy, is that you?"
Tears mixed with rainwater on my face. "Brody! Mommy's right here! I'm right outside, sweetie!"
Agent Rivera pulled me back gently and used a pair of heavy bolt cutters from his trunk. With a loud snap, the padlock broke apart. Rivera kicked the door open and swept his flashlight across the room.
There, curled up in the corner on top of a pile of old tarps, sat my seven-year-old boy. He was hugging his knees, his little blue shirt torn, his eyes wide with pure terror.
"Mommy!" he sobbed.
I dropped to the floor, sliding across the dusty wood, and scooped him into my arms. I pulled him so tight against my chest I could feel his frantic little heart beating against my ribs.
"I got you, baby. Mommy's here. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again," I cried, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his hair.
Brody wrapped his small arms around my neck, shaking violently. "Grandma said you didn't want me anymore. She said if I made a noise, she'd lock me in the box forever."
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Agent Rivera knelt beside us, his eyes glistening with suppressed anger at Dorothy’s wickedness. He spoke softly into his radio. "We have the child. He is safe. Request medical transport for evaluation."
I carried Brody out into the rain and into the warmth of the SUV, holding him as if my life depended on it. The nightmare was far from over, but my boy was back in my arms.
