Chapter 23 - ESCAPE THROUGH THE BRAMBLES
Tears burned my eyes as the echo of that second gunshot ripped through the narrow metal chute.
"Ryan!" I screamed again, but the only response was the rough, muffled sound of a violent scuffle below.
"Grab him! Don't let him reach the breaker!" a guard's voice bellowed through the basement floorboards.
Ryan was alive, but they were swarming him; every second I hesitated was a second he bought with his blood.
I dug my elbows into the cold metal, kicking frantically with my boots until my head burst through the coal hatch outside.
The freezing night rain hit my face like needles as I scrambled out onto the muddy mulch beneath the rhododendron bushes.
Across the lawn, fifty yards away, Brianna was standing near the locked cellar doors with an umbrella.
Her back was turned toward the shrubbery as she peered down into the basement grate, watching the flashing muzzle flares.
"Did you get her?" Brianna shouted down into the opening. "Make sure she's dead!"
I didn't wait for the answer.
I pressed my hand firmly against my protruding stomach, praying for my twins to stay quiet, and crawled into the trees.
The thorns of wild blackberry bushes ripped through my sweater and tore at my skin, but I didn't slow down.
Behind me, the estate alarms suddenly began to wail, a high-pitched siren piercing the stormy night sky.
Floodlights erupted all around the manor's perimeter, washing the sprawling lawns in harsh, glaring white light.
"She went up the coal chute!" a guard roared from behind the hedges. "Spread out into the woods! Find her!"
I broke into a desperate, lumbering sprint through the thick pine forest bordering the estate.
The mud pulled at my boots, threatening to tear them from my feet with every agonizing stride.
My lungs burned with fire; sharp Braxton Hicks contractions seized my lower abdomen, doubling me over in pain.
"Not now," I gasped, leaning heavily against the rough bark of a towering oak tree. "Please, babies... not now."
I looked back through the trees and saw three tactical flashlight beams cutting through the rain, fanning out in a hunt.
They were less than two hundred yards behind me, moving with terrifying, trained speed.
Between the trees ahead, the dark, slick asphalt of the county backroad glistened under distant utility poles.
If I could reach the road, I might flag down a passing car, or reach the old volunteer fire station two miles out.
I stumbled out of the treeline, tumbling down the muddy embankment and crashing onto the gravel shoulder of the road.
Headlights suddenly swept around the sharp mountain curve, blinding me with their intense yellow glare.
Tires screeched violently on the wet pavement as the vehicle swerved to avoid hitting my sprawled body.
I scrambled backward, holding my hands up against the blinding light, bracing for the impact.
The car, an old, rusted pickup truck with a dented front fender, slid to a shuddering halt inches from my boots.
The driver’s door swung open immediately, and an elderly man with a grease-stained ballcap scrambled out into the rain.
"Good lord, miss!" the man shouted, rushing to my side and kneeling in the gravel. "Are you alright?"
"Please," I sobbed, clutching his rough flannel sleeve with bloody fingers. "Please help me... they're trying to kill us."
The man looked up toward the dark woods behind me, where the bouncing flashlight beams were already breaking through the brush.
The sharp crack of a bullet shattered the truck’s rear taillight, showering the asphalt in red plastic shards.
"Get in the truck!" the old man bellowed, hauling me up by my arms and shoving me into the passenger side.
He slammed my door shut, sprinted around the hood, and threw himself behind the wheel.
A volley of gunfire erupted from the treeline, rounds punching through the tailgate as the engine screamed to life.
The truck fishtailed wildly on the slick asphalt, tires catching traction and rocketing forward into the stormy night.
I turned in the passenger seat, looking through the cracked rear window at the receding estate gates.
Under the harsh perimeter floodlights, Evelyn Vance stood beside her black SUV, lowering a pair of night-vision binoculars.
Even from hundreds of yards away through the driving rain, I could feel the sheer, murderous hatred in her cold stare.
Beside me, the old man pressed the accelerator to the floor, his knuckles white against the steering wheel.
"Who in the hell were those people, young lady?" he asked, his voice shaking with terror.
May you like
"My mother," I whispered, sliding down onto the floorboard as my vision blurred with exhaustion and pain.
***
