Chapter 9 - THE ROAD BACK
We left before sunrise. I packed light—food, water, warm clothes, the drives sealed in waterproof pouches, Dad’s journal. Emma carried Lily. We locked the cabin door and walked into the trees.
The trail was rough and overgrown. Dad had shown it to me once, years ago, saying it was the only way to travel unseen. He’d been right. No cameras. No paved roads. No witnesses. Just forest and silence.
We walked for six hours before stopping. Lily was tired but brave. She held my hand and asked questions about the trees, the birds, the mountains. She didn’t ask why we were running. I was grateful for that.
By the third day, we reached the main road. I had arranged for a trusted contact—an old friend of Dad’s who owed him his life—to meet us there with a vehicle. He arrived exactly when promised, a plain sedan with no markings.
“Your father saved my life once,” he said simply. “I won’t let his daughter and granddaughter fall.”
We drove in shifts, taking back roads, avoiding highways and checkpoints. Every mile felt safer. Every mile brought us closer to justice.
But Julian was ahead of us.
Halfway to the capital, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: I know where you are. Turn back. Or the child pays the price.
I showed Emma. Her face tightened. “He’s tracking us.”
“Not through the phone. I disabled GPS.” I looked out the window at the passing countryside. “Someone told him. Someone we know.”
“Arthur?”
“I don’t think so. But someone close enough to know our plans.” I thought about the lawyer Dad had contacted. The one who supposedly held backup copies. “Maybe Julian found him. Or bribed him.”
“Then we can’t trust anyone.” Emma gripped Lily’s hand. “We hand the evidence directly to a federal judge. No intermediaries. No lawyers. No one.”
I nodded. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”
That night, we stopped at a small motel outside a quiet town. I checked us in under a false name. We kept the lights low and the curtains drawn. I sat by the door all night, the drives inside my shirt, watching the hallway.
Around three in the morning, I heard footsteps outside. Slow. Deliberate. They stopped right in front of our room. A hand tested the doorknob.
I stood, gun in hand, and moved silently toward the door. The footsteps retreated. I peered through the curtain and saw a man standing across the street, watching our windows. He held a phone to his ear, speaking quietly.
I woke Emma instantly. “We’re leaving. Now.”
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We slipped out the back window, climbed a fence, and ran through dark alleys until we reached the next town. We abandoned the car and took a bus. We changed routes three times. By sunrise, we were closer to the capital—and far from anyone who might have been tracking us.
But I knew what it meant. Julian had people everywhere. He had resources. He had been preparing for this for years. And he wouldn’t stop hunting us until we were dead or silenced.
