Chapter 5 - The Midnight Highway
The rain had turned into a steady, blinding downpour by the time Roman’s town car cleared the city limits and hit the dark, winding stretch of State Route 9 situational highway. The wipers slapped against the windshield in a frantic rhythm, smearing the amber glow of occasional roadside diners and darkened road signs into long, bleeding streaks of light. In the backseat, I stared out at the impenetrable wall of pine trees lining the asphalt, the shadows twisting into distorted shapes under the glare of our high beams. Gideon sat behind the wheel, his broad shoulders tense as he navigated the slick curves with practiced precision, while Roman sat beside me, his laptop glowing with muted blue light as he reviewed satellite maps of the rural county line.
"Ten miles to the turnoff," Gideon spoke up, his voice gravelly and low over the hum of the engine. "County road twelve hasn't been plowed or graded in years. If the washouts are as bad as the state report indicated, we'll have to ditch the car the last mile and go on foot."
Roman didn't look up from the screen, but his thumb brushed rhythmically against the edge of the laptop casing. "We take the car as far as it goes. If someone is already out there waiting at the property, they'll have acoustic sensors or trail cams. We need the weight and speed of the vehicle if things get complicated."
I pulled my wool coat tighter around my throat, watching the pale reflection of my own face in the rain-streaked window. The idea of returning to Butler County—to the ghosts of the ash and the gunfire I had fled twelve years ago—felt like walking backward into a nightmare. Yet sitting beside Roman in the cramped, warm interior of the car, I didn't feel the helpless panic that had gripped me in the restaurant lounge. The raw, unfiltered intensity in his eyes whenever he spoke of Samuel Vane wasn't the look of an enemy seeking revenge; it was the look of a man who had lost his compass and was finally seeing the needle twitch back toward true north.
Suddenly, the vehicle lurched as Gideon slammed on the brakes, the tires hissing against the wet asphalt as the town car drifted sideways before catching traction. Ahead of us, half-concealed behind a curtain of heavy rain and drooping pine branches, a rusted pickup truck sat parked squarely across both lanes of the narrow highway with its lights completely off.
"Company," Gideon muttered, his hand dropping instantly toward the tactical holster secured beneath his dark uniform shirt.
May you like
Before I could draw breath, twin beams of high-intensity halogen lights snapped on from the bed of the parked truck, blinding us through the windshield as the metallic screech of an engine revving echoed through the dark woods. Roman didn't hesitate; he slammed the laptop shut, reached inside his tailored suit jacket, and drew a heavy, matte-black pistol with practiced, fluid motion.
"Stay down on the floorboard, Norah," Roman ordered, his voice cutting through the glare with absolute, lethal calm as he reached for the door handle. "Whatever happens, do not look up."
