At 6:00 a.m., on the morning the prison planned to execute Ramiro Fuentes for murdering his wife, he asked for one last thing: to see his eight-year-old daughter. Three hours later, little Salomé leaned into his ear and whispered that her mother had hidden the real proof inside Bunny, the stuffed rabbit she never let go. Ramiro went white, kicked back his chair, and screamed that he could finally prove he was innocent.

The rain came down in gray sheets over the serpentine roads of the Sierra Pass.

An unmarked gray SUV plowed through the pooling water, its headlights cutting through the thick mountain fog. Inside, Colonel Méndez drove with both hands firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the rear-view mirror every few seconds. Clara Mercer sat in the passenger seat, holding the heavy black tactical case on her lap like an explosive device.

In the back seat, small and wrapped in a oversized wool blanket, sat Salomé. She was clutching her faded cream-colored rabbit, which was now noticeably lighter without the weight of the hidden device inside its belly.

"Is he behind us?" Clara asked, her eyes darting to the side mirror as a pair of bright yellow fog lights appeared in the mist behind them.

"Keep your head down," Méndez instructed calmly, his voice dropping an octave into his old military tone. "We’ve been followed since we passed the outer toll gate."

Behind them, a heavy dark pickup truck accelerated, closing the distance rapidly. Its high beams flashed twice—a signal to pull over.

"Is that state police?" Clara asked, leaning back to glance out the rear window.

"No state police vehicle uses aftermarket bull bars and tinted front glass," Méndez muttered. "It’s a recovery team. Vance is getting desperate."

Suddenly, the pickup truck rammed the rear bumper of the SUV. The impact sent a violent jolt through the vehicle. Salomé gasped, pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders, but she didn't scream.

"Hold on!" Méndez yelled, spinning the wheel to correct the skid as the tires screeched against the slick asphalt.

The pickup truck pulled alongside the driver’s side, its dark window rolling down to reveal a masked figure holding a short-barreled shotgun.

BANG.

The side window of the SUV shattered into a thousand spiderweb fractures, held together only by the heavy safety film. Méndez slammed on the brakes. The pickup truck, carrying too much momentum, surged ahead into the turn.

Méndez cut the wheel hard to the right, steering the heavy SUV off the main highway and down a narrow, unpaved logging road that disappeared into the dense pine forest. The vehicle bounced violently over rutted mud and exposed tree roots, the branches scraping against the metal doors with sharp, screeching noises.

"Are you hit?" Clara called out, checking her own arms for blood.

"I’m fine," Méndez grunted, his arms straining as he controlled the erratic steering. "The glass held. But we can't make it to the capital on this road. They’ll block the lower exit."

"Where are we going then?"

"Somewhere they don't have jurisdiction," Méndez replied, bringing the SUV to a sudden stop beneath the thick canopy of a tall Douglas fir tree. He cut the lights and killed the engine.

The forest fell into an eerie, dripping silence. Far off in the distance, the faint sound of revving engines echoed down the main highway as the pursuers realized they had lost their target.

Méndez turned around to check on Salomé. "You alright, kiddo?"

Salomé nodded silently, her small thumb tracing the frayed ears of her stuffed rabbit. "My mom told me that when bad men come, you have to be quiet like a mouse under the floorboards."

Clara looked at the girl, a sudden knot forming in her throat. "Your mother was a very smart woman, Salomé."

"She was," Salomé said softly. "She told me that the law is like a big house, but sometimes the people inside lock the front door and throw away the key. She said daddy didn't have a key, so I had to bring one."

Clara turned to Méndez, her decision made. "We can't go to the Federal Court in the capital directly. Vance’s firm has judges on retainer there. We need a clean venue—a court where Sterling’s money can't buy influence."

"The Fourth Circuit Appellate Court," Méndez said, catching her drift. "Judge Evelyn Reed."

Clara nodded. "Reed is seventy-two years old, independent, and hates corporate influence more than anyone in the state. If we bring her this video and the child’s testimony, she will sign an emergency writ of innocence before Vance even realizes we’re in her district."

"Then we move on foot," Méndez said, reaching into the glove compartment to pull out a compact flashlight and a spare magazine. "The logging trail leads to an abandoned ranger station two miles south. From there, we can hit the old railway line."