Chapter 25 - THE CORRUPT BADGE
The news alert flashed across the screen with my wedding photograph plastered beneath the word: *ARMED AND DANGEROUS.*
"They're framing you," Sarah whispered, her thumb scrolling through the fabricated police report.
"The statement says you suffered a severe postpartum psychosis episode, shot Ryan, and fled the estate."
"Ryan..." I choked out, tears burning my bruised cheeks. "What does it say about Ryan? Is he alive?"
Sarah scanned down the digital article, her face pale under the kitchen light.
"He's in critical condition at St. Jude’s Memorial under police guard. Detective Marcus Brody is personally supervising his room."
"Brody is Evelyn's payroll man," I said, cold dread washing over me like an icy wave.
"If Ryan wakes up and tells the doctors what really happened in that cellar, Brody will silence him permanently."
"You can't go near that hospital, Nora," Thomas urged, his rough voice tight with fatherly concern.
"The second you walk through those doors, Brody’s men will arrest you, confiscate that dossier, and lose you in the system."
"Then we don't walk through the front door," I said, pushing myself up from the sofa despite the dull ache in my hips.
Sarah caught my elbow, trying to steady me. "You can barely walk, Nora. The terbutaline is only buying you a few hours."
"If you go into active labor while running from the police, you and those twins could die of hemorrhage."
"I am Arthur Vance’s daughter," I said, looking directly into Sarah's eyes with a fierce, burning resolve.
"My whole life, they treated me like a burden, an outsider, a stray dog who should be grateful for scraps."
"They punched my pregnant stomach. They locked me in a cellar. They shot my husband."
"I am not going to hide in the woods while they murder the father of my children."
I turned to Thomas, pointing to the legal dossier on the table.
"Does your truck have enough gas to get to the television broadcast station in the capital?"
Thomas looked at me, a slow, grim smile spreading across his weathered, lined face.
"My truck has a full tank, little lady. But the capital is forty miles past three police checkpoints."
"We don't need to go to the capital," Sarah suddenly interrupted, grabbing her tablet from her medical bag.
"My fiancé is the head broadcast engineer for Channel 6 News down in the valley."
"They have a mobile satellite live truck stationed at the county fairgrounds tonight for the storm coverage."
"If we can get you into that broadcast truck, we can override the local affiliate feed and broadcast directly to two million homes."
"Can you bypass the studio control room?" I asked, hope flaring up in my chest for the first time in hours.
"He can bypass anything with a coaxial cable," Sarah said with a confident smirk. "He built the transmitter."
Thomas grabbed his heavy canvas hunting coat from the wall peg and racked the slide of an old twelve-gauge shotgun.
"I'll take the lead truck," Thomas declared firmly. "If Brody’s county cruisers try to box us in, I'll draw them off."
"Sarah, you take Nora in your sedan through the old logging trail behind the ridge."
We gathered the documents, packing every single birth certificate, check stub, and surveillance photo into a waterproof case.
As we stepped out onto the porch, the distant sound of police sirens wailed through the valley below.
The storm had settled into a thick, low-lying mountain fog, blanketing the pine trees in a ghostly white shroud.
Sarah guided me into the backseat of her dark sedan, laying blankets across my legs to keep me warm.
"Keep your head below the window line," Sarah instructed softly, starting the engine without turning on the headlights.
Thomas’s pickup roared out first, kicking up gravel as he tore down the main paved access road toward the highway.
Within three minutes, red and blue emergency lights flashed through the trees at the base of the mountain.
Thomas had drawn the patrol units away; the logging road behind us was completely clear.
Sarah accelerated down the muddy trail, navigating the deep ruts with steady, determined precision.
In the backseat, another contraction rippled through my lower abdomen, sharper and tighter than the last.
I bit my lip until I tasted copper, refusing to make a sound that would distract Sarah from the wheel.
I pressed my hands against my belly, feeling the rhythmic, urgent kicks of my babies beneath the skin.
"Hold on, little ones," I whispered into the darkness. "Just hold on a little longer."
Thirty minutes later, the bright industrial floodlights of the county fairgrounds cut through the thick morning fog.
Parked near the livestock pavilion stood a massive white production truck, a towering microwave satellite dish mounted on its roof.
Standing by the open rear doors, checking a bank of glowing video monitors, was a young man in a heavy rain parka.
Sarah pulled the car alongside the truck, killed the engine, and jumped out immediately.
"Dave!" Sarah shouted, sprinting toward her fiancé. "Open the satellite uplink right now!"
The man turned in surprise, but before he could speak, a black unmarked sedan slammed through the fairgrounds gate behind us.
The unmarked cruiser slid to a halt fifty feet away, its high beams pinning us against the side of the production van.
The driver’s door opened, and a tall man in a dark trench coat stepped out, wearing a gold detective’s shield on his belt.
Detective Marcus Brody raised his service weapon, leveling the barrel straight at my chest.
May you like
"Step away from the van, Mrs. Vance," Brody said, his voice cold and devoid of pity. "Your run is over."
***
