Chapter 27 - The Storm and the Signal
The rain was coming down in sheets now, turning the freshly tilled soil of the apple orchard into a slick, clinging morass of mud. As Madison and I stumbled out into the open air, the distant roar of thunder shook the dark sky, instantly swallowing the sound of our escape.
"Keep running, sweetie! Don't look back!" I yelled over the howl of the wind, gripping Madison’s hand so tightly my knuckles ached.
We waded through the waist-high grass between the gnarled apple trees, the wet branches whipping against our faces and tearing at our clothes. My lungs burned with every breath, and a dull, nagging ache began to throb in my lower abdomen—a terrifying reminder of the new life I was carrying, demanding a safety I wasn't sure I could provide.
Suddenly, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the entire estate.
In that split second of daylight-bright clarity, I saw the sleek silhouette of Julian’s matte-black sedan still parked by the main patio, its headlights cutting pale beams through the driving rain. And near the edge of the terrace, another figure was moving fast—Greg.
He hadn't stayed in the hallway. Armed with his heavy brass fireplace poker, Greg had ambushed the second operative who had tried to enter the foyer from the front staircase, knocking the man down before sprinting out into the courtyard to find us.
"Greg!" I screamed, though my voice was instantly shredded by the gale-force wind.
He stopped, scanning the orchard through the sheet of rain. When lightning flashed again, his eyes locked onto our figures emerging from the apple trees. He broke into a sprint, his boots churning up mud as he charged across the lawn to meet us.
Before he could reach us, however, the headlights of a second vehicle—a massive, unmarked Ford SUV—roared up the secondary access road from the north gate, its tires spraying gravel and mud in all directions. It slammed to a halt blocking our only exit path, and two more men in tactical gear piled out of the doors, cutting off Greg's advance.
"Stay down!" Greg roared, changing direction to intercept them before they could reach the orchard.
"Greg, no! There's too many of them!" I shouted, pulling Madison down into the shelter of a thick, moss-covered stone wall that bordered the old property line.
From our vantage point in the mud, we watched in horror as Greg engaged the first operative in brutal hand-to-hand combat. The heavy brass poker deflected a strike from a rubber-sheathed baton with a sharp metallic clang. Greg ducked a clumsy punch, drove his elbow hard into the man’s ribs, and sent him sprawling into the mud.
But the second man was faster. Before Greg could turn, the operative slammed the butt of his weapon into the back of Greg’s shoulder. Greg stumbled, crying out as he fell heavily to one knee in the wet gravel.
"Greg!" I screamed, starting to scramble over the stone wall, desperate to run to him.
"Clara, stop! Look!" Madison gasped, her small hand pointing frantically toward the main manor house.
I froze, my heart stopping in my chest.
On the second-floor balcony of the master suite, the French doors had been blown open by the wind. Standing there, silhouetted against the flash of lightning with a glass of scotch in one hand and a mobile phone in the other, was Julian Vance.
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He wasn't watching the fight. He was looking directly down at us, a cold, triumphant smile playing across his lips. He raised his phone to his ear, spoke a single sentence into the screen, and then lowered it, watching as the screen began to glow with an incoming video call.
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