Chapter 8 - The Collision of Timelines
-8-
The impact was catastrophic. The heavy SUV T-boned Claire’s sedan with the force of a freight train, lifting the smaller car onto two wheels before slamming it sideways into a suburban mail box and a brick retaining wall. The screech of tearing metal and the explosive pop of airbags deploying filled the rainy street with acrid white smoke.
Claire tumbled sideways into the wet asphalt, the revolver flying from her hand and skidding across the pavement into the gutter.
"Get down, Bug!" Ethan yelled, throwing his arms over Noah and shielding his son against the brick wall of a nearby house as debris rained down around them.
The driver's side door of the heavy SUV flew open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black tactical jacket stepped out into the rain, holding a Remington shotgun at a low ready position. It wasn't a local police officer. It was Miller, the private investigator Marcus Vance had retained for corporate security details.
"Clear!" Miller barked, his eyes scanning the street as he moved swiftly toward Claire, who was struggling to push herself up from the wet pavement, coughing violently and clutching her bruised ribs.
Miller kicked the skidded revolver away into the drainage ditch, grabbed Claire by the collar of her trench coat, and slammed her roughly against the hood of her wrecked sedan, clicking a pair of steel handcuffs around her wrists with practiced efficiency.
"You're federal property now, Mrs. Morgan," Miller growled, reading her rights in a flat, monotone voice while she thrashed against his grip.
Ethan walked over slowly, holding a shaking Noah by the hand. He looked down at Claire, whose high-society facade was completely in ruins, her hair plastered to her face, mud staining her expensive coat.
"Where is David?" Ethan asked, his voice dead and cold.
Claire spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the pavement and laughed—a harsh, manic sound that echoed off the quiet houses. "You think... you think stopping me changes anything? David is already at the airstrip. The private charter left for the Caymans twenty minutes ago. By the time the feds freeze his accounts, he'll be lounging on a private beach in the Caribbean."
Ethan stared at her. A cold realization washed over him. David hadn't stayed behind to fight them in the basement; he had used the distraction to buy himself enough time to make the final asset transfer and slip out of the country.
"Dad," Noah tugged on Ethan’s hand, pointing down the street toward their house. "Look."
Ethan turned around.
Through the pouring rain, two blocks away, a thick plume of black smoke was billowing into the gray sky from the direction of Elm Street.
The house was on fire.
"Miller," Ethan said, turning sharply to the investigator. "My house. David set the basement on fire."
Miller didn't hesitate. He shoved Claire into the back of his SUV, slammed the heavy door, and motioned for Ethan and Noah to get into the passenger seat. "Get in. We've got a bird in the air tracking every outbound flight from the regional airport. David isn't making it to the Caymans today."
As the SUV roared away from the curb, leaving Claire’s wrecked sedan smoking in the rain, Ethan looked down at Noah, who was curled safely in the front passenger seat, clutching his muddy silver key like a talisman.
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"We're going to get him, Bug," Ethan whispered, his knuckles white as he gripped the dashboard.
The nightmare wasn't over yet. But the monsters were finally running out of hiding places.
