Chapter 6 - Blood and Deceit
Tires screeched against wet asphalt as Mark jerked the steering wheel hard to the left, throwing the Honda Civic across the overgrown median.
The lead SUV slammed into our rear bumper with the force of a battering ram. The impact threw me forward against the seatbelt, knocking the wind from my lungs. Glass from our shattered tail lights showered the road behind us.
"Hold onto the hard drives!" Mark shouted, his knuckles white against the wheel as he fought for traction on the slick mud.
The engine screamed as the Civic slid sideways, narrowly missing the concrete support pillar of the overpass. Behind us, the two flanking SUVs matched our turn with terrifying precision. These weren't street thugs or private investigators—these were tactical contractors, trained for vehicle interdiction.
"How did they find us?" I gasped, clutching the canvas bag containing the SD cards and the trust ledger to my chest.
"Cell tower ping," Mark muttered, eyes darting between the mirrors. "They have Arthur's contacts at the telecom company. They tracked your burner phone or mine!"
He reached down, grabbed his phone, and threw it out the shattered driver’s side window into the darkness. "Toss yours! Now!"
I didn't hesitate. I pulled my phone from my pocket and hurled it into the churning brown water of the drainage canal beside the road.
A deafening *crack* echoed through the night.
A spiderweb of fractures instantly bloomed across the Civic’s rear windshield.
"They're shooting at us!" I screamed, ducking low toward the floorboards.
"Non-lethal or suppressed," Mark said grimly, swerving wildly to throw off the shooter’s aim. "They don't want the police responding to gunfire calls. They want to disable the car and drag us into the woods."
We hit the on-ramp of the industrial parkway at sixty miles per hour. The heavy black SUV drew alongside us on the passenger side. Through the tinted glass, I caught a glimpse of a man in a tactical vest, raising a pneumatic spike gun aimed directly at our front right tire.
"Mark! Look out!"
Mark didn't brake. Instead, he slammed his foot onto the pedal, cranked the wheel to the right, and intentionally pit-maneuvered the heavy SUV. The lighter Civic groaned in metallic agony, but the unexpected hit sent the front wheel of the SUV catching the high concrete curb of the highway barrier.
The massive vehicle tilted, flipped violently onto its roof in a shower of sparks and tumbling metal, and skidded three hundred yards down the asphalt, completely blocking the two pursuing vehicles behind it.
"Hold on!" Mark yelled, yanking the emergency brake.
The Civic executed a violent 180-degree spin, tires smoking, and rocketed down an unlit service ramp leading toward the abandoned naval shipyard on the edge of the river.
Two minutes later, Mark killed the headlights and coasted the battered Honda into the cavernous shadow of an empty brick warehouse. The engine sputtered, clicked, and died, leaving only the sound of heavy rain pouring through the rusted holes in the corrugated roof above.
For a long moment, neither of us breathed.
My hands were shaking violently. My throat tasted of iron and bile. "Did we lose them?"
"For twenty minutes. Maybe thirty," Mark said, unbuckling his seatbelt. He turned to me, his expression grave. "The Civic is dead. Radiator is cracked, steering column is bent. We’re on foot from here."
He opened the glove compartment, pulled out a Glock 19, checked the chamber, and tucked it into his waistband. Then he looked at the hard drives and the paper documents in my arms.
"We have enough to destroy Julian Bellamy," Mark said quietly. "We have enough to put Piper in prison for attempted murder, and Eleanor for conspiracy. But we have a much bigger problem."
"What problem?"
Mark reached into the back seat and grabbed a waterproof tablet. He tapped the screen, pulling up a live public docket from the New York State Family Court.
"Arthur Vance didn't wait for morning," Mark explained, pointing to the glowing text. "He filed an emergency ex-parte motion at 8:00 PM tonight. Citing your 'fugitive status' and 'severe psychiatric deterioration,' Judge Harrison—who happens to sit on the board of the Bellamy Arts Foundation—granted temporary sole medical custody of Willa to Julian."
A cold dread pooled in my gut. "What does that mean?"
"It means Julian has the legal authority to sign medical release forms," Mark whispered, his eyes dark with fury. "And look at the secondary filing."
I leaned in, reading the small text on the screen:
*PETITION FOR IMMEDIATE TRANSFER TO PRIVATE PALLIATIVE CARE FACILITY — OAKRIDGE SANATORIUM, UPSTATE NEW YORK.*
"Oakridge," I murmured, my blood turning to ice. "Eleanor owns Oakridge. It’s where they put Julian’s senile uncle before he died of 'heart failure' three years ago."
"If they move Willa out of St. Jude’s and get her behind the gates of Oakridge, she will never leave that bed," Mark said. "They will stage a medical complication, turn off the life support, and by the time any autopsy is ordered, the body will be cremated."
"When?" I demanded, grabbing his canvas sleeve. "When are they moving her?"
"Tomorrow morning at 6:00 AM," Mark said, checking his watch.
It was already 1:45 AM.
We had four hours and fifteen minutes before my daughter was delivered into the hands of her murderers.
May you like
"Then we don't hide in Queens," I said, my voice steadying with a cold, terrifying resolve. "We’re going back to the hospital. And we aren't sneaking in this time."
***
