Chapter 7 - Breaking the Net
Before Arthur could finish his confession, Cormac was already moving. He grabbed the manila envelope off the table, shoving it inside his black blazer, and hooked his other hand around my wrist. "Out the kitchen service door," he said, his tone razor-sharp and devoid of panic.
A heavy crash echoed from the front of the diner as the glass double doors shattered under the weight of two men in dark tactical gear. The short-order cook dropped his spatula, shouting in Spanish as he scrambled backward into the pantry. We didn't wait for Arthur to beg for our forgiveness; we bolted down the narrow service corridor past the grease traps and stacked crates of onions, bursting out into the cold morning downpour just as heavy footsteps thundered down the hall behind us.
The rain stung my face like needles as we sprinted across the muddy expanse toward the tree line. Mud sucked at my boots, threatening to pull them off with every stride, but Cormac kept a firm, unbroken grip on my hand, pulling me forward through the dense brush. Behind us, a voice shouted commands into a radio, followed immediately by the sharp, concussive pop of a suppressed handgun. A branch splintered four inches above my head, raining bark down into my hair.
We dove down an embankment into a dry culvert just as a flashlight beam swept over the ridge above us, cutting pale arcs through the driving rain. My chest burned with every ragged breath I took, the cold air freezing my lungs. I curled into the wet earth beneath a thick canopy of ferns, pressing my forehead against Cormac’s shoulder. He was breathing heavily, his muscular frame tense as coiled steel, his eyes scanning the ridgeline above us while his hand rested reassuringly against the small of my back.
"They're sweeping toward the county road," Cormac murmured against my ear, his voice barely audible over the rush of water in the drainage pipe. "They think we're heading for the highway."
"Arthur sold us out," I whispered, the bitter truth settling in my stomach like lead. "He was never going to help us. It was a trap from the second he answered your ping."
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"It doesn't matter," Cormac said, pulling the manila envelope from his soaked jacket and tapping it against his palm. "Arthur brought the physical hard drives just to prove he had them. The digital mirror is intact. The trap failed."
We waited in the freezing mud for twenty agonizing minutes until the hum of the SUV engines faded into the distance. When we finally climbed out of the culvert, the sun was beginning to break through the gray overcast, casting long, pale shadows across the desolate northern county road.
