Chapter 7 - The Breakaway
It was one of the tactical guards, a massive brute with a scar running across his jawline. He slammed me hard against the washing machine, knocking the wind out of my lungs and sending my Sig Sauer skidding across the slippery tile floor.
"Nice try, kid," the guard grunted, rearing back his fist to deliver a bone-crushing blow to my jaw.
Before his fist could connect, a heavy ceramic flowerpot came crashing down onto the back of his helmet with a resounding thwack. The guard’s eyes rolled back instantly, his knees buckling as he collapsed face-first onto the floor, unconscious.
I looked up through the shattered window frame. Jolene was standing outside in the muddy garden, her chest heaving, holding a heavy terracotta shard in her trembling hand. She had crawled back inside halfway through the window just to save my life.
"Get out here, Grant!" she hissed urgently, ignoring her own physical limitations as adrenaline took over.
I didn't hesitate. I vaulted through the window, landing hard in the wet mud beside her, and pulled her toward the thick tree line bordering the property. Behind us, flashbang grenades detonated inside the kitchen with deafening concussive roars, illuminating the night sky in blinding white flashes and filling the cottage with thick, choking smoke.
We didn't stop running until the dense woods swallowed us whole, the cold autumn mud sucking at our shoes, our breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
We collapsed beneath the thick canopy of an ancient oak tree roughly half a mile from the cottage. The distant sounds of shouting guards and revving engines echoed faintly through the trees, but the darkness protected us.
Jolene clutched her stomach, leaning heavily against the tree trunk, her face slick with cold sweat.
"Are you okay? Did you hit anything?" I asked frantically, my hands hovering over her shoulders, checking her for injuries in the pale moonlight.
"I'm... I'm fine," she panted, closing her eyes as she tried to regulate her breathing. "The baby is kicking. I think he—or she—decided they didn't like Uncle Desmond either."
Despite the terrifying reality of our situation, a choked, watery laugh escaped my throat. I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her trembling body, burying my face in her damp hair.
"I'm sorry," I whispered against her skin, the weight of everything finally breaking me down. "I'm so sorry I let him lie to us. I'm sorry I didn't see through it sooner."
"We're alive, Grant," Jolene whispered back, opening her eyes to look directly into mine with fierce, unyielding devotion. "And he knows we're alive. Which means the war has officially started. If we go back, we die. If we run forever, he hunts us forever."
"We're not running," I said, my voice hardening into cold, absolute steel as I helped her to her feet. "We're going to finish this. But we need help. We need someone Desmond can't buy, can't intimidate, and can't erase."
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"Who?" Jolene asked, wincing slightly as she took a step.
"Trent," I replied, pulling my burner phone from my pocket—luckily still intact. "And then... we take down the Holloway Organization from the inside out."
