Chapter 4 - Red Lights on the Turnpike
The shadow emerged from the cellar stairwell.
I raised the heavy knife, ready to strike.
“It’s me!”
Adrian stepped into the light of the emergency bulb.
His tuxedo was torn to ribbons.
Blood ran from a graze on his cheekbone.
His eyes were wild, but when he saw Lucy, the savagery vanished.
He grabbed the ignition keys from the hook.
“Tunnel exit. Now.”
We ran through the hundred-yard brick tunnel that led beneath the gardens to the
secondary carriage house.
Parked inside was a matte-black, armored Suburban with reinforced steel bumpers.
Adrian hit the bay door switch.
He shoved us into the back seat.
“Get down on the floorboards. Put the Kevlar blankets over you.”
The massive V8 engine roared to life with a deep, menacing rumble.
Adrian slammed the gas.
The truck smashed through the wooden carriage doors and shot out onto the
private gravel road.
The estate behind us was lit with orange flames.
Two black pursuit sedans pulled out from the tree line, their high beams
blinding in the rearview mirror.
“Hold on!” Adrian shouted.
He spun the wheel hard, drifting the three-ton truck across the wet lawn,
cutting through the boundary hedges.
Gunfire rattled against the rear bulletproof glass like heavy hail.
The glass spiderwebbed, but held.
Adrian reached into the center console and grabbed an encrypted tactical tablet.
He slapped it onto my lap.
“Rachel! Can you read GPS telemetry?”
“Yes!”
“Track the transponder on Owen’s medical bracelet. Brielle forgot I put a
military micro-chip in his watch.”
I tapped the screen with trembling fingers.
A pulsing blue dot appeared on the map of Pennsylvania.
Heading north on Interstate 476.
Speed: 75 miles per hour.
“He’s fifteen miles ahead!” I yelled.
“Passing the Lehigh Valley toll plaza!”
“They’re heading for the Delaware Water Gap,” Adrian growled, his knuckles white
on the leather steering wheel.
“There’s an abandoned airstrip near Northfield. They have a private charter
waiting.”
He looked into the rearview mirror.
Lucy was huddled against me under the heavy Kevlar blanket.
Her hands were moving against my knee, spelling letters:
O-W-E-N. S-A-V-E.
Adrian saw her hands in the mirror.
He tapped the steering wheel with two fingers.
The sign for Promise.
He hammered the throttle.
The armored truck crossed ninety miles per hour.
Then one hundred.
Behind us, one of the pursuit sedans tried to ram our rear quarter panel.
Adrian slammed on the emergency brakes.
The pursuer overshot us, spinning out across the wet highway asphalt.
Adrian accelerated forward, driving our reinforced steel push-bumper straight
into the sedan’s driver door.
The sedan flipped violently over the guardrail, rolling down the embankment in a
shower of sparks.
Up ahead, through the midnight rain, the red taillights of a commercial
transport van came into view.
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And painted on the rear doors was a logo:
NORTHFIELD PREPARATORY ACADEMY.
