Chapter 5 - On the Run Through the Backroads
“He’s behind us,” I said, pressing my face against the cool glass of the van window, watching the single pair of headlights tailing us through the darkness.
Chief Miller glanced up at the rearview mirror, his jaw clenching. “I see him. He’s been pacing us for three miles. Whoever’s driving that car is a professional tail—they’re staying just outside our dead zones, making it impossible to get a clear view of the license plate.”
Detective Vance unholstered his weapon, checking the magazine with a practiced click. “Shake him, Miller. Take the old logging trail cutoff through Blackwood County. If he’s a local shadow, let’s see how well he handles unpaved mud in a luxury sedan.”
The van jerked violently as Miller slammed on the brakes, cranked the wheel to the right, and rocketed down a narrow, unmarked turnoff that plunged straight into a dense pine forest. Tree branches scraped noisily against the sides of the vehicle like skeletal fingers, scratching the paint. Inside, the twins stirred and began to whimper softly.
“Shh, it’s okay,” I whispered, leaning over their carriers, patting their tiny blankets with trembling hands. “Leo’s here. I’ve got you.”
Behind us, the dark sedan didn't slow down. It plunged into the logging trail right behind our van, its high-beam headlights slicing through the thick fog like twin surgical knives. The gap between us was closing. Whoever drove that car knew these woods just as well as we did—perhaps even better.
“He’s gaining!” Vance shouted over the roar of the engine.
“The bridge ahead is out!” Miller yelled back, his face illuminated by the harsh dashboard lights as he fought the steering wheel. “The old timber bridge over the creek washed out last spring!”
“Then we hit the riverbank and go on foot!” Vance decided instantly. “If we get cornered in this van, we’re fish in a barrel.”
Miller slammed the van to a screeching halt just yards away from a sheer drop where a wooden bridge had once spanned a swollen, rushing creek. The tires churned up mud as the vehicle fishtailed to a stop.
Before the dust could even settle, the dark sedan pulled up behind us, blocking our only way back out of the trail. Its doors flew open.
A tall figure stepped out into the glare of the headlights, wearing a heavy trench coat that whipped wildly in the wind. Even from a distance, I recognized the terrifying posture, the cold, calculated aura of a man who never lost a game.
“Vance, take the kids and run for the ridge!” Miller shouted, drawing his weapon and stepping out of the driver's door. “I’ll cover the retreat!”
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“Miller, no, there’s too many variables—” Vance started, but Miller was already moving.
Gunshots shattered the silence of the night. Flash-bangs exploded near the sedan, turning the forest into a blinding strobe light of white fire and deafening noise. Amidst the chaos, Vance grabbed the two infant carriers in one arm and scooped me up with the other, plunging straight into the icy, freezing brush of the riverbank, sprinting away from the light and into the black heart of the woods.
