Chapter 7 - Inside the Black-Market Rig
The van surged forward with a violent jolt, throwing me off balance against a stack of aluminum storage cases.
Upfront, the driver cursed loudly, shifting the transmission into drive and slamming his foot down on the gas pedal as tires spun wildly in the gravel, showering the alley with dirt and stones. Through the open partition, I could see the chaos unfolding outside—Julian was scrambling back to his feet, screaming my name, desperately chasing the accelerating tail-lights of the utility van down the dark, narrow alleyway.
“Stop the car!” I yelled, scrambling across the metal floor of the cargo hold. I grabbed a heavy plastic medical crate and hurled it through the gap between the front seats, smashing it against the center console.
The driver slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into a utility pole, and I used the momentum to lunge forward, grabbing the back of his headrest and yanking him backward with all my might.
“Are you out of your mind, old lady? You’re going to get us both killed!” the driver snarled, elbowing me back as he fought to keep control of the steering wheel.
“Where is she taking her? Who is paying you?” I demanded, pressing my forearm against his throat, ignoring the sharp pain in my bruised cheek and the throbbing cut beneath my eye.
“I don't know names! I’m just logistics!” he choked out, his face turning purple as he clawed at my sleeve. “We’re just the transport link! The drop-off is at the regional transit airstrip—Hangar 4! Now get off me before I roll this van into a ditch!”
With a sudden, vicious twist, he threw his body weight to the side, knocking me off balance and sending me crashing into the side door. Before I could recover, he hit the gas again, the van rocketing out of the industrial alleyway and onto the multi-lane highway heading toward the city's private airfield.
I pulled myself up, gasping for air, and crawled toward the front passenger seat where the black bassinet sat strapped into a temporary safety harness.
My hands shook violently as I unbuckled the thermal blanket and pulled it back.
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My granddaughter looked up at me from beneath the mesh hood, her tiny face flushed, her small fists clenched near her cheeks. She let out a weak, raspy whimper, recognizing my voice, and her tiny fingers instinctively curled around my thumb when I pressed it gently against her palm.
She was alive. She was breathing. But she was trapped inside a moving cage hurtling toward a private hangar where a black-market adoption broker was waiting to erase her existence entirely.
