Chapter 2: The Fugitive’s Path
Panic surged through Martha, sharper than the cold rain. She didn’t scream. She didn't freeze. Instinct, forged in the fires of a life harder than anyone knew, took over. She grabbed the bag, vaulted out the kitchen window just as the front door splintered open, and scrambled into the dense woods behind her home.
She ran until her lungs burned, the mud slicking her boots. The burner phone buzzed again—a text: Go to the Greyhound station. Ticket is under Sarah Miller. Don’t look at anyone.
Martha spent the next three days moving through the American heartland like a ghost. She rode buses that rattled across the plains, watching the landscape shift from the familiar trees of the East Coast to the arid, golden expanse of the Midwest. Every time a car pulled up behind their bus, her heart stopped. Every time a man in a dark suit walked down the aisle, she ducked her head, clutching the canvas bag to her chest like a shield. She wasn't just a mother fleeing a bad son; she was a woman uncovering a web of corporate espionage and greed that went deeper than she ever imagined. David hadn't just been protecting her; he had been hiding a secret that could destroy an empire.
