For three hours, a stranger kept brushing my leg on the bus while I traveled with my son to visit my seriously ill father-in-law. Just before getting off, he slipped me a handkerchief and whispered, “Pretend you're feeling dizzy, and don't sign anything.” I stayed silent, but when I arrived, I found a will and realized who wanted to take everything from us.

The announcement hung in the damp air like a death sentence. Dogs.

"Who was that on the radio?" I demanded, backing away toward Toby.

"An ally inside the house," Vance said concisely, unscrewing a panel on the floor to reveal a narrow drainage pipe that sloped steeply downward. "Not everyone in that family is bloodthirsty, Jennifer. Some are just terrified. Now move!"

He didn't give me time to process. He pulled a small can of industrial masking spray from his pack, thoroughly spraying down the soles of our shoes and the area around the rusted door.

"It’ll throw off the hounds for ten minutes, no more," Vance said, helping Toby down into the dark, wet pipe. "Slide down. It leads to the creek bed outside the estate perimeter."

"Is it safe?"

"Safer than getting torn apart by Belgian Malinois," Vance snapped, pushing me gently toward the opening. "Go!"

I swallowed my fear, took Toby in my lap, and pushed off into the pitch-black drainage tube. We slid rapidly down a slick, moss-covered incline, the smell of stagnation and old iron filling my nostrils. Seconds later, we shot out into a knee-deep, rushing creek, the cold water knocking the breath out of me.

Vance hit the water a second later with a loud splash. He immediately grabbed my arm, keeping us upright against the strong current.

"Keep moving downstream," he ordered, his voice low. "Water masks the scent. Stay close to the bank, under the overhanging roots."

We waded through the icy creek for nearly half a mile. My legs were numb, and Toby was shivering so violently I was afraid he would drop into hypothermia. Every shadow in the surrounding woods looked like an attacker; every snap of a twig sounded like a rifle cocking.

In the distance, behind us, the mournful baying of hunting dogs cut through the rumble of distant thunder. Christian had released the pack.

"They're at the creek," Vance muttered, glancing back. "They'll track us along the banks. We need to get onto the highway."

"The highway?" I gasped, trying to keep Toby's head above the swirling water. "Christian’s men patrol the roads! You said it yourself!"

"They patrol the main routes," Vance said, leading us up a steep, muddy embankment where a rusted chain-link fence marked the boundary of a long-abandoned logging yard. "They don't patrol the old coal transport tracks."

He pulled out heavy wire cutters and snipped through the rusted fence in three swift cuts, pulling the wire back just enough for us to squeeze through.

On the other side stood a battered, twenty-year-old pickup truck, painted a dull forest green that blended seamlessly into the surrounding brush.

"Your ride?" I asked, panting.

"My escape route," Vance corrected, unlocking the cab and shoving us inside. "Get under the blankets on the floorboards. Keep Toby down. No matter what you hear, do not look up until I tell you."

I squeezed into the cramped floorboard behind the driver's seat, pulling a heavy, wool-smelling mover's blanket over myself and Toby. Toby buried his face in my neck, holding his breath. I held the leather ledger tight against my chest, feeling the damp paper beneath my jacket.

The engine roared to life with a deep, mechanical growl. Vance shifted into gear, and the truck lurched forward, bouncing violently over uneven dirt tracks.

For twenty minutes, we drove in complete darkness. I couldn't see where we were going, but I could feel the truck climbing steadily, the tires spitting gravel against the undercarriage.

Suddenly, the truck slowed to a crawl. The engine idle dropped to a quiet hum.

I heard the sound of a vehicle window rolling down, followed by a harsh, spotlight beam washing over the truck’s cab through the rear window.

"Evening, officer," Vance's voice sounded perfectly calm, lazy even, as if he were just a local logger heading home after a late shift.

"Road's closed, driver," a rough voice shouted from outside. "State police and private security checkpoint. Looking for a run-away vehicle from the Lawson estate."

"Lawson estate?" Vance chuckled smoothly. "Ain't those the wealthy folk up on the ridge? What happened, someone break in?"

"Something like that. Need to see some ID, sir. And I'm gonna need to step around back and check the bed."

My heart pounded so hard I was certain the guard would hear it through the floorboards. I felt Vance's hand quietly reach behind his seat, his fingers tapping three times against my knee under the blanket—a signal to stay dead still.

"Sure thing, deputy," Vance said, handing over his license. "ID's right there. Name's Arthur Pendelton. Got my logging permit in the glove box if you need it."

A long, agonizing pause followed. I could hear boots crunching on gravel, moving toward the rear of the pickup.

"He's checking the truck bed," Vance murmured barely above a breath, his right hand slipping down toward his ankle holster.

Suddenly, a loud radio squawk shattered the silence.

"Unit 4, we got a sighting on Route 9! Black sedan heading south toward the interstate! Intercept immediately!"

The boots paused. "Copy that, dispatch!" the guard yelled. He tapped his hand twice on the hood of Vance's truck. "All right, Pendelton, get out of here. Take the back trail through Miller's Pass. Main highway is locked down."

"Much obliged, deputy. Stay safe out there."

The truck accelerated, shifting quickly through the gears as we accelerated away from the checkpoint.

We drove for another thirty minutes before Vance finally spoke. "You can get up now. We're out of the primary search grid."

I threw off the blanket, sitting up and pulling Toby into a tight embrace. The little boy was exhausted, his eyes heavy as he drifted into an uneasy sleep against my lap.

I looked out the window. We were driving down a dark, winding mountain road surrounded by thick fog.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"A safe house in the old mining district," Vance replied, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. "A place Brandon helped me set up three years ago when we realized how deep the corruption ran in his family."

"You keep talking about Brandon," I said softly, looking at the scar across his eyebrow. "How did you really know him? You weren't just his security head, were you?"

Vance remained silent for a moment, his jaw tightening.

"Brandon saved my life," Vance said quietly. "Ten years ago, in Afghanistan. He was an army contractor; I was a sergeant in a private security detail. Our convoy was ambushed. Everyone died... except me and him. He pulled me out of a burning humvee while taking small-arms fire."

He paused, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

"When he came to me three years ago saying his brother was poisoning his father's mind and stealing from the company, I swore I'd protect him. I failed to protect Brandon, Jennifer. The car crash... I was twenty minutes too late to stop it."