Chapter 3 - The Midnight Ambush
“Don’t send anything over the civilian network,” Nathan commanded, his tone instantly shifting from bewildered ex-lover to razor-sharp military investigator. “If what you’re saying is real, your home connection is already compromised. Your father hasn't just spent thirty years in the Army, Claire—he sits on the executive advisory board for Sentinel Global Defense. They run the state’s digital surveillance contracts.”
Cold ice trickled down my spine. “You think he’d tap my house?”
“I think Marcus Mercer would burn a city down before he lets his son go to Leavenworth,” Nathan said grimly. “Listen to me. Pack what you need. Take the drives. Get in your car and meet me at the 24-hour diner off Route 9—the one near the old reservoir. Do not stop for gas. Do not call anyone.”
“Nathan, wait—”
“Move, Claire. Now.”
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone into my pocket, my pulse hammering in my throat. I grabbed a battered canvas backpack from the closet, carefully packing the hard drives, the manila folders, and the flash drives. I threw in a change of clothes, my passport, and whatever emergency cash I had stashed in my desk.
As I zipped the bag shut, the faint beams of car headlights swept across the blinds of my front window.
My breath caught.
The road outside my house was a dead-end residential lane. At 12:15 on a Tuesday morning, there was no reason for a car to be idling outside.
I clicked off the banker's lamp, plunging the office into total darkness. Peeking through the slats of the wooden blinds, I saw a sleek, black GMC Yukon parked across the street, its engine rumbling in a low, sinister hum. The windows were heavily tinted.
Two men in dark tactical jackets stepped out. They didn't wear uniforms, but the way they moved—shoulders back, heads swiveling, hands hovering near their waistbands—screamed private military contractors. Sentinel Global. My father’s personal attack dogs.
They weren't here to talk. Marcus had sent them to retrieve the evidence before the sun came up.
A sharp knock echoed through the front of the house.
*Bam. Bam. Bam.*
“Miss Mercer?” a voice called out, calm, professional, and entirely devoid of warmth. “We’re here on behalf of your father. He’s concerned about your well-being after the incident at the hotel. Please open the door.”
I stood frozen in the hallway. My mind raced. If I went out the front, I was taken. If I stayed, they would kick the door down within two minutes.
*The kitchen door.*
The kitchen had an old wooden door leading out to a screened porch that opened into an overgrown backyard bordering a dense strip of woods.
I slipped off my shoes, holding them in one hand, the heavy backpack strapped tightly across both shoulders. I moved like a ghost across the linoleum, keeping low below window level.
*Crack.*
The sound of wood splintering at the front door shattered the silence. They weren't waiting. Marcus had given them full authorization to breach.
“Clear the front!” one of the men barked, the sound of heavy combat boots stamping onto the hardwood floor of my living room.
I unlocked the back door, turning the deadbolt as slowly as humanly possible. The latch clicked. I pushed it open, stepped onto the screened porch, and quietly unlatched the outer screen door.
“She’s not in the bedroom!” the second man shouted from inside my house. “Check the office! Look for a safe!”
I bolted.
I ran across the wet, dew-soaked grass in my socks, ignoring the icy mud squelching between my toes and the sharp twigs biting into my skin. The woods were thirty yards away.
Behind me, the back porch light suddenly flicked on.
“Hey! Runner in the yard!”
A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, violently bouncing across the trees before locking onto my back.
“Stop! Mercer, stop running!”
I didn't look back. I plunged headfirst into the tree line. Thorns tore at my arms and snagged my hair, but adrenaline flooded my veins, turning the burning pain in my knee into a distant thrum. I knew these woods. I had grown up playing in these outskirts before my parents bought their suburban fortress.
Behind me, the heavy crashes of men plowing through underbrush echoed loudly.
“You flank right! Don't shoot, General Mercer wants the hardware intact!”
*They want the drives.*
I reached a familiar dirt service road that ran parallel to the highway a quarter-mile through the trees. Hidden behind an abandoned water treatment shed was an old, rusted ten-speed bicycle I had stored there two summers ago during trail rides.
It was a miracle the tires still held air.
I threw my leg over the seat, shoved my feet into the pedals, and hammered down into the dirt road just as the beam of a contractor’s flashlight broke through the foliage behind me.
“There she is! Roadway!”
May you like
I didn't stop. I pedaled until my lungs felt like they were coated in crushed glass, tears streaming down my face from the biting wind, flying toward Route 9 with the secrets of the Mercer empire strapped to my back.
***
