Chapter 9 - The Chase in the Dark
The black sedan’s engine screamed as Mark slammed the transmission into reverse. The rear tires spun wildly, spitting gravel and mud into the air before the car lurched backward, jumping the driveway edge and tearing across the lawn.
“Get up!” Arthur yelled, dropping the tire iron with a heavy thud and extending a calloused hand toward me. “If he gets into the woods, nobody’s ever finding your mother and that boy.”
I grabbed his hand, letting him haul me to my feet. The pain in my ribs flared like a live coal, but adrenaline drowned out the agony.
“Where’s his backup car?” I gasped, wiping blood from my cheek.
“He didn't have one,” Arthur said, his eyes hard and focused as he sprinted toward the passenger side of our rented sedan, which was still running, its headlights cutting a wide swath across the abandoned yard. “Mark worked alone on the execution part. Victor handled the books; Mark handled the wet work. He thought he was untouchable.”
I vaulted into the driver’s seat of the rental car, my hands shaking so badly on the steering wheel I could barely keep them steady. Arthur threw himself into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut just as the vehicle rocked from the wind of Mark’s sedan tearing past us down the private lane.
“Follow him!” Arthur shouted, pointing toward the red tail-lights disappearing into the thicket of oak and pine trees at the edge of the property line.
I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal. The sedan surged forward, its engine whining in protest as I chased the bouncing red glow of Mark’s taillights down the unpaved access road that led deep into the state park bordering our old home.
The trees closed in around us like a tunnel of jagged teeth. The headlights caught the frantic thrashing of brush on the side of the road—Caroline and Ethan had tried to cut through the ridge on foot, but the steep embankment made it impossible to move fast.
Up ahead, Mark’s sedan had veered off the dirt track entirely, crashing through a rotten wooden split-rail fence and coming to a smoking, violent halt against the thick trunk of an ancient maple tree.
“He crashed!” Arthur shouted, bracing his hands against the dashboard.
I slammed on the brakes, sending our car into a controlled slide that stopped ten feet away from the wrecked black sedan. Steam billowed from Mark’s crumpled radiator, mixing with the cool night mist.
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The driver's side door of the wrecked car was jammed shut against the trunk of the maple tree. Through the shattered side window, I could see Mark scrambling across the center console, trying to push open the passenger door with a frantic, desperate energy.
And standing twenty yards up the embankment, half-hidden behind a thick cluster of fern bushes, were Caroline and Ethan, paralyzed by terror as they watched the wreckage unfold.
