Chapter 7: Shadows on the Highway
The dashboard clock glowed a pale, icy green as the rental sedan tore through the empty interstate miles. Rain had begun to spit against the windshield, the wipers sweeping back and forth in a metronomic rhythm that did nothing to soothe the tension inside the cabin. Miller drove with both hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, his eyes constantly darting between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. In the passenger seat, Julian sat in silence, staring out into the dark expanse of pine trees lining the highway.
I sat in the back, the ledger zipped securely inside my purse resting on my lap. Every time a pair of headlights appeared in the distance, my breath caught in my throat. I kept picturing Marcus Vance sitting in his polished glass office in downtown Chicago, pouring scotch and waiting for word that his loose ends had been tied up permanently.
"How long have you been working for him?" I asked quietly, leaning forward toward the gap between the two front seats. My eyes fixed on Miller's stoic profile in the dim glow of the dashboard.
Miller didn't take his eyes off the road. "Long enough to know when a man is steering his family toward a cliff, Miss Rosa. Mr. Vance—Julian—he inherited a mess he didn't create. Marcus put a stranglehold on the board while Julian was overseas trying to salvage our overseas supply lines."
"He was building an empire on ash," I muttered, looking back toward Julian.
Julian turned his head slightly, his dark eyes catching the green light of the dash. "My uncle trusted Marcus because they shared a last name. I didn't. When I came back and found out the bakery had burned down and my uncle had died of a sudden, convenient heart attack three weeks later, I started digging. But Marcus had already sealed the corporate records. Without hard proof—signatures on paper—the courts wouldn't touch him."
"And now you have the paper," Miller added, his voice gravelly and low. "Provided we make it to the state line without getting run off the road by one of Marcus's collection squads."
As if on cue, the headlights of a large vehicle crested the hill behind us, closing the distance at an unnatural speed. It was a dark, unmarked SUV riding our bumper, its high beams flashing a blinding white glare into our side mirrors. Miller cursed under his breath and pressed down on the gas pedal, the engine roaring in protest as the sedan surged forward.
Julian didn't panic. He reached inside his black button-down shirt, pulling out a heavy, matte-black satellite phone with a flick of his wrist. "Miller, take the next off-ramp. Lead them toward the old logging road behind the abandoned grain elevator. We need space to see who's behind this."
"Boss, that road is unpaved," Miller warned, his knuckles tightening on the wheel. "If they box us in—"
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"Do it," Julian commanded, his voice brooking no argument.
The sedan swerved sharply to the right, tires screaming against the wet asphalt as we took the exit ramp at eighty miles an hour. The dark SUV followed instantly, its tires throwing up a shower of gravel as it dove onto our tail. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but as I looked at Julian’s calm, hardened profile, I realized something fundamental: he wasn't running from Marcus anymore. He was hunting him.
