Eli Carrow had been staring at the portrait for eleven minutes before he finally reached for the chair.

"No!" Eli screamed, scrambling down the slick mud on his knees.

The black leather backpack was snagged on a fallen log in the middle of the dark, rushing creek. The water was waist-deep, churning rapidly from the heavy downpour.

Eli waded into the freezing water without hesitation. The current hit him like a wall, nearly knocking him off his feet, but he gritted his teeth and lunged forward, grabbing the strap of the backpack just as the log gave way under the water's force.

He pulled the heavy, waterlogged bag to his chest, struggling back toward the muddy riverbank.

Above him, at the top of the ravine, a flash of light swept through the trees.

Vincent stepped out onto the ridge, panting heavily, his gun pointed straight down at the young boy trapped in the creek below.

"End of the line, Eli," Vincent said, his voice cold and devoid of all mercy. "Throw the bag up here."

Eli stood in the knee-deep water, shivering uncontrollably, holding his father's and grandfather's entire legacy in his hands.

"You shot my dad," Eli said, his voice steady despite the trembling of his cold body. "You locked my grandfather in a wall. You're going to prison, Uncle Vincent."

"Nobody is going to prison," Vincent sneered, taking a step down the muddy incline. "Because in ten minutes, the mansion will be in flames, and the police will think you all perished in a tragic accident. Now give me the bag!"

Eli looked at the heavy leather strap in his hands, then looked downstream at the narrow stone bridge fifty yards away.

"Catch me if you can," Eli whispered.

With every ounce of energy left in his small body, Eli turned and leaped into the deep channel of the rushing creek, letting the strong current sweep him downstream toward the bridge.

"Eli!" Vincent yelled in disbelief, firing a frantic shot into the water as the boy vanished into the dark, churning river.

The cold water swept Eli away, pulling him under twice before he managed to kick his legs, surfacing near the heavy stone arches of the bridge. He reached out, his fingers catching an iron drainpipe attached to the bridge support.

He pulled himself out of the freezing water, dragging his exhausted, bruised body up the steep embankment until his hands touched the smooth, wet asphalt of County Route 9.