Chapter 4 - The Escape Through the Orchard
The sight of the gun pointed at my chest shattered the paralyzing fear that had held me hostage all morning. Survival isn't about hope; it's about pure, unadulterated instinct.
Without thinking, I grabbed the heavy glass pot of scalding hot coffee sitting on the counter burner beside me and threw the entire contents straight into Thomas's face.
Thomas screamed—a sharp, guttural roar of agony as the boiling liquid struck his eyes and cheeks.
BANG!
A gunshot deafened the room, blowing a jagged hole through the kitchen cabinets behind me. Plaster and splinters showered my hair, but I didn't stop to look.
I grabbed the black metal box off the island, shoved Thomas violently into the kitchen table, and bolted out the back door.
"Kiera!" Thomas roared behind me, his voice wild with pain and blind fury. "Kiera, stop!"
I hit the cold morning air at a full sprint. My boots tore through the muddy grass of the backyard, heading straight for the dense apple orchard that bordered the back of our property.
The air burned in my lungs, the cold wind whipping against my cheeks as I clutched the heavy iron box against my chest. Behind me, I heard the back screen door slam open, followed by the heavy, uneven thud of Thomas's boots pursuing me through the mud.
"She's heading for the orchard!" Thomas yelled into his radio. "Cut her off at the creek line!"
He wasn't alone. Julian Vane’s men were already positioning themselves around the estate.
I plunged into the shadow of the apple trees. The bare, gnarled branches grabbed at my sweater like wooden fingers, scratching my arms and tearing my hair loose from its bun. The orchard was thick with low-hanging fog, giving me a few precious feet of visibility, but I knew these trees better than anyone. I had picked fruit here every autumn for fourteen years.
I ducked behind the thick trunk of a century-old Baldwin apple tree, dropping to my knees in the wet leaves, gasping for air.
Through the fog, I heard the engine of a heavy SUV idling near the dirt access road two hundred yards to the north. Doors opened and slammed shut.
"Kiera!" Thomas's voice echoed through the trees, closer now—maybe fifty yards away. He was moving slowly, his footsteps crunching over the dried twigs. "You can't get out of here on foot! The county road is blocked! Just give me the ledger! If you give Vane the ledger, I can persuade him to let you go! I swear it!"
"He's lying, Kiera!" a soft voice whispered from the brush right behind me.
I nearly shrieked, spinning around on my knees.
Arthur Vance was crouched in the hollow base of a massive hollow oak tree ten feet away. He had an old iron tire iron clutched in his hand, his white hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes sharp and alert.
"Arthur!" I breathed, crawling over to him on my hands and knees. "How did you—"
"I followed Higgins' patrol car when he left your house," Arthur whispered rapidly. "I knew they were closing in today. We don't have much time. Vane's got three men sweeping the orchard from the west."
"The creek," I whispered, wiping the sweat and dirt from my eyes. "The culvert under the county road. It leads to the abandoned railway track on the other side."
"Can you make it?" Arthur asked, looking down at the heavy black box in my arms.
"I have to," I said, my voice hardening into steel. "Or everything they did to you—everything they did to me—stays buried forever."
Arthur gave me a firm, resolute nod. "Follow me. Keep low."
We moved through the orchard like ghosts, keeping to the drainage ditches and thick brush where the fog was thickest. Behind us, the sounds of Thomas and Vane’s men grew louder—shouted directions, flashlight beams cutting through the grey mist, the metallic racking of handgun slides.
We reached the edge of the creek bed. The water was fast, brown, and ice-cold from the autumn rains, swirling past sharp rocks and muddy banks.
Across the thirty-foot span of water lay the concrete entrance to the county culvert—a dark, narrow tunnel running beneath Route 9.
"Go!" Arthur urged, shoving me toward the water.
I plunged into the creek. The freezing water hit my knees like a thousand needles, threatening to knock me off my feet. I clutched the iron box to my chest with both arms, digging my boots into the slick gravel of the creek bed, dragging myself forward against the current.
BANG!
A bullet struck the water three feet to my left, sending a geyser of icy spray into my face.
"There she is!" a man shouted from the top of the orchard ridge. "By the culvert!"
"Don't shoot her!" Thomas’s voice bellowed through the fog. "Shoot the old man!"
I turned my head just in time to see Arthur Vance step out into the open on the creek bank. He didn't run. He didn't hide. He stood tall, facing the ridge, holding his iron tire iron high above his head, creating a human shield between the gunmen and me.
"Run, Kiera!" Arthur roared at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing off the concrete walls of the tunnel like thunder. "FINISH IT!"
"Arthur! No!" I screamed.
BANG! BANG!
Arthur stiffened. He looked up at the grey sky, a soft, peaceful expression touching his face, before collapsing backward into the wet grass of the creek bank.
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"ARTHUR!" I sobbed, the sound torn from the deepest part of my soul.
Tears blinded my eyes, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. I scrambled up the muddy slope on the other side of the creek, threw my body into the dark, wet concrete tunnel of the culvert, and crawled into the blackness as bullets ricocheted off the tunnel entrance behind me.
