Chapter 8 - The Hunt
The snow was already four inches deep, dragging at my boots as I plunged into the dense pine woods bordering the estate.
"Uncle Mike, I'm scared!" Ella cried into my ear, her tiny arms locked around my neck with desperate strength.
"I know, baby. I know. But you are safe with me. I will not let them touch you," I whispered, keeping my footing on the treacherous, icy terrain.
Behind us, the beam of heavy tactical spotlights cut through the swirling snow, sweeping the tree line. The baying of guard dogs echoed in the distance. Cortez had released the perimeter patrol units.
He wasn't trying to capture us anymore. He was trying to erase us.
I reached the hidden service road half a mile through the woods—a maintenance track Martha had mentioned during our brief talk. Parked beneath a canopy of pine branches was an old, rusted Ford F-150 pickup truck. Martha had left the keys under the wheel well, exactly as we had planned.
I opened the passenger door, set Ella inside, and buckled her into the seatbelt. "Stay down on the floorboard, Ella. Don't sit up, no matter what you hear."
She nodded solemnly, curling into the footwell beneath my flannel shirt.
I grabbed the keys, fired the engine, and slammed the truck into reverse just as two sets of high-intensity headlights appeared in the rearview mirror.
Cortez’s black security SUVs had found the service road.
The truck’s tires spun on the ice, catching gravel with a violent shudder, and lurched backward before I slammed it into drive. The old V8 engine roared, barreling down the narrow dirt track toward the state highway.
Behind me, the lead SUV accelerated aggressively, its reinforced steel push-bumper gaining ground.
*Crack!*
A bullet shattered my driver-side mirror.
"Stay down, Ella!" I yelled.
Up ahead, the service road terminated at Route 7. But blocking the intersection was a county sheriff cruiser, its red and blue lights flashing against the snow.
Bradley Hayes. Cortez’s bought-and-paid-for police chief.
The cruiser was angled across the road, creating a roadblock. Behind me, Cortez’s SUVs were closing in at sixty miles per hour, boxing me into a kill zone.
Hayes stepped out of his cruiser, holding up a hand, unholstering his service weapon.
I had three seconds to make a decision. If I stopped, Hayes would hand Ella back to Cortez, and I would disappear into an unmarked grave.
I pressed the gas pedal to the floor.
"Hold on, Ella!"
The Ford truck surged forward. Hayes’ eyes went wide with sudden, frantic realization. He didn't fire; he dove into the snowbank as the heavy steel bumper of the F-150 smashed into the rear quarter-panel of his cruiser.
Metal screamed. Glass exploded into the night. The impact violently jolted the truck, but the heavy American frame plowed straight through the cruiser, spinning it out into the ditch.
The truck fishtailed onto Route 7, tires clawing for traction on the slushy asphalt, before straightening out.
I glanced in the mirror. Hayes was scrambling out of the snowbank, waving frantically as Cortez’s SUVs skidded to a halt at the wreckage.
We had broken the perimeter.
I reached down and placed a steady hand on Ella’s shivering head. "We're out, butterfly. We're on the highway."
From beneath the seat, Ella peeked up, her eyes wide, glistening with fresh tears. "Are we going to the dark room?"
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"No," I choked out, a lump rising in my throat as I fought back the overwhelming emotion. "We are never going back there. Never again."
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