Chapter 5 - CONFRONTATION AT THE DINER
Z
The air between us grew deadly quiet. The morning sun was just breaking through the treeline, casting long, sharp shadows across the concrete parking lot.
"Get in the car, Thomas," the first bodyguard commanded without taking his eyes off me.
"Rick, run!" Chase screamed, shoving the guard with all his strength.
The distraction lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. The guard stumbled sideways, grabbing Chase by the shoulder and forcing him toward the open rear door of the SUV. The second guard pulled a heavy black handgun from his holster and leveled it straight at my chest.
"Don't move an inch," he growled, his face devoid of emotion. "You just picked the absolute worst day to go looking for answers, mister."
My instincts took over. I didn't try to play the hero. I threw myself sideways behind the bumper of a nearby parked sedan just as a suppressed pop echoed across the lot. A bullet shattered the side mirror of the car I was hiding behind, showering glass onto my coat.
"Get the boy inside!" the shooter yelled to his partner.
I scrambled on my hands and knees along the line of parked cars, heading toward the side of the diner building. Engine roars echoed through the asphalt lot as the SUV's engine flared to life. Tires squealed against the pavement as the heavy vehicle pulled out of the space, turning sharply toward the highway exit.
I didn't hesitate. I dashed back to my truck, unlocked the door, and threw myself into the driver's seat. I cranked the ignition, slammed the gear shift into drive, and tore out of the diner lot right behind them.
The black SUV was driving aggressively, weaving between early morning commuters on the two-lane highway. I kept my distance, staying three cars back so they couldn't easily ram me or shoot through their back glass.
My mind was racing. Chase—Thomas—was being held against his will. Marcus Vance had clearly tracked him down or had been keeping him under tight surveillance all along. Chase had used the humble lawn-mowing disguise as a desperate attempt to slip away from his handlers and access his father's secret vault on Elm Street. But time had run out for him.
The SUV turned off the main highway onto a secluded mountain road that led toward the private Vance estate—a massive compound perched on the bluffs overlooking the river.
I knew that once that heavy iron gate closed behind them, I would never see the boy alive again. Marcus would force him to sign over any remaining legal claims to the estate, and then Thomas would disappear just like his father did seven years ago.
I reached down to my passenger seat, grabbing my phone. I dialed the local police department, but halfway through the ringing, I remembered the journal entries. Marcus controls the local authorities. If I called the town sheriff, I might as well be calling Marcus's front desk.
Instead, I took a deep breath, gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, and pressed the accelerator to the floor. My old truck roared as it accelerated up the winding mountain road, closing the gap between me and the black SUV.
As we rounded a sharp curve shadowed by dense pine trees, the SUV suddenly hit its brakes, turning sideways to block both lanes of the narrow road.
I slammed on my brakes, my tires burning against the asphalt, coming to a halt just ten feet from their front bumper.
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The driver's door of the SUV opened, and a man in an expensive tailored grey suit stepped out onto the gravel shoulder. He was in his late fifties, with silver hair, sharp feature, and cold, calculating eyes.
It was Marcus Vance.
