Chapter 7 - The Escape Through The Suburban Night
John’s grip on Vance’s collar loosened for a fraction of a second as the weight of Chloe’s words landed.
Vance took advantage of the distraction, violently shoving John back and regaining his posture.
"You weren't supposed to see that file, Chloe," Vance sneered, adjusting his silk necktie with trembling hands.
"Some secrets are far more valuable than a simple family inheritance."
Sirens suddenly echoed in the distance, their high-pitched wails approaching rapidly through the quiet suburban streets.
Martha had called in the county deputies to execute the emergency custody order with maximum force.
"You have two minutes to hand over the child, John," Vance said, taking out his phone to record.
"If you resist the officers, you will be charged with felony interference with a law enforcement operation."
John didn't hesitate for another second; he turned around, grabbed Chloe’s arm, and pulled her toward the kitchen.
"We’re going through the back garden gate right now!" John barked, locking the kitchen door behind them.
"Where are we going?!" Chloe sobbed, struggling to keep her balance in her sweatpants as they ran into the dark.
"They have the police, the courts, and all the money in the world!"
"They don't have my father's old military network," John replied, leading her toward the dark tree line behind the lawn.
He kicked open the wooden fence panel, revealing a hidden dirt trail that led deep into the surrounding woods.
Behind them, the loud sound of breaking glass echoed as deputies forced their way through the front door.
Flashing red and blue lights illuminated the pristine white siding of the house they had called home.
"Clear the residence! Find the infant!" a voice boomed through a megaphone over the sound of barking dogs.
Martha stood near the driveway under the streetlights, her face twisted in a cold, triumphant smile.
John held Chloe’s hand tight, pulling her through the thick brush as branches tore at his leather jacket.
The air was freezing, and the cries of baby Liam were muffled against Chloe’s heavy wool sweater.
After ten minutes of breathless sprinting through the dense Virginia woodland, they reached an old gravel road.
Parked beneath the shadows of an overhanging pine tree was a beat-up, dark green Ford F-150 pickup truck.
The driver’s side door opened, and a tall, weathered man stepped out into the moonlight wearing a faded cap.
"You made it just in time, kid," the man said, his deep voice gravelly from years of smoking.
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It was Sam Houston, John’s father’s former unit commander from his service days in the United States Marine Corps.
"Get in the back," Sam ordered sternly, popping open the truck's covered bed. "The state police have road blocks up."
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