Chapter 7 - The Boathouse Escape
I hurled us through the small side door of the boathouse, slamming it shut and throwing the heavy wooden bar across the frame just as the first security dog slammed violently against the outside wood, barking frantically.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Heavy boots hit the wooden ramp outside.
“Open the door!” a man’s harsh voice shouted over the wind. “Miss Ward! Stand down! You have nowhere to go!”
Inside, the boathouse was dark and filled with the deep, rhythmic sloshing of the icy ocean waters churning beneath the wooden floorboards. The smell of gasoline, old wood, and salt spray hung thick in the air.
In the center of the structure sat a massive, vintage 1978 Dodge Power Wagon utility truck—a heavy, four-wheel-drive beast of steel with massive tires, covered in a light layer of dust.
I ran to the driver’s side door, threw Mia into the bench seat, and scrambled inside behind the wheel. I pulled the brass key Eleanor had given me out of my pocket with trembling fingers and jammed it into the ignition.
Outside, the heavy thud of an axe struck the wooden side door of the boathouse. Splinters of wood exploded inward.
“Start... please, start!” I prayed aloud, turning the key.
The heavy V8 engine groaned, turning over slowly in the freezing air. Rrr... rrr... rrr...
“Come on!” I screamed, pumping the gas pedal.
The wooden door gave way with a deafening crash as the two armed guards broke through, flashlights sweeping across the cab of the truck. One of them raised a heavy black pistol, aiming straight for the driver’s window.
VROOOOOOM!
The massive engine roared to life with a thunderous, mechanical growl, shaking the entire boathouse structure.
I didn't hesitate. I slammed the heavy floor gearshift into low-range four-wheel drive, stomped my foot down onto the accelerator, and held onto the steering wheel with everything I had.
The heavy steel bumper of the Power Wagon smashed directly through the double wooden doors at the front of the boathouse. Splintered oak and iron hinges exploded into the night as the truck launched out onto the icy gravel driveway.
The guard fired two shots—BANG! BANG!—the bullets ricocheting uselessly off the thick steel tailgate as we tore up the incline toward the main estate gates.
“Hang on, Mia!” I yelled over the roar of the engine.
The heavy iron security gates at the end of the long driveway were locked tight, their black iron bars glittering beneath a thick coat of clear ice.
The Dodge didn't slow down. I slammed my foot flat against the floorboards.
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We hit the iron gates at forty miles an hour.
With a sickening, metallic crunch, the heavy steel frame of the truck shattered the center lock, throwing the iron gates outward into the storm. Sparks flew into the black night as we burst through the perimeter wall, breaking out onto the slick, winding coastal highway.
