Chapter 26 - Flight to the Coast
"Go to hell, Arthur," Claire said, and she smashed the radio against the concrete wall, shattering it into pieces.
She turned to me, her eyes wild and haunted. "He knows our trajectory. Peak 9 was a decoy to see if I’d fold. He’s already positioning a blockade along the southern highway. Our only way out is west—through the Skagit Valley toward the coast."
"We don't have a vehicle, Claire," I pointed out, gesturing toward the endless dark outside. "We’re miles from civilization."
"Behind this pump station is an old rail maintenance truck," she said, pulling a heavy keyring from the dead operative's belt. "The syndicate keeps supply caches along these decommissioned lines. If it has fuel, we ride the maintenance access trails all the way to the water."
Ten minutes later, the rusted steel garage doors groaned open, revealing a battered Ford F-350 with high-clearance tires and rail-guide wheels mounted underneath. I checked the fuel tank—full. In the back sat two spare jerry cans and a heavy canvas tarp.
I lifted Emily into the center of the bench seat, wrapping her tightly in blankets we found in the cab. She held my hand, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Daddy... are we going home?"
My heart tore in half. "Not yet, peanut. But we’re going somewhere safe. I promise."
I started the engine. The big V8 roared to life with a deep, reassuring rumble. Claire climbed into the passenger seat, resting the operative's tactical rifle across her knees.
"If we hit a roadblock, David," Claire said quietly, her eyes locked on the dark trail ahead, "you don't stop. You don't swerve. You put the pedal down and you run through whatever is in front of you."
May you like
I slammed the truck into gear, and we surged forward into the predawn darkness, tearing through the overgrown logging trail. For two hours, we raced through the coastal mountains, the elevation dropping steadily as the air turned from freezing alpine cold to the heavy, salt-laden dampness of the Pacific Northwest.
The sun never truly rose; it merely turned the sky into a bruised, slate-gray sheet of low-hanging clouds. By mid-morning, the dense pine timber gave way to the gray, churning waters of Puget Sound.
