Chapter 151 - The Road to Saint-Armand
The old V8 engine coughed twice, sputtered in the freezing air, and roared to life with a violent shudder that shook the cab. Emma slammed the transmission into four-wheel drive, stomped on the accelerator, and sent the truck plowing through the four-foot snowbank into the logging trail.
Behind her in the rearview mirror, two snowmobiles crested the railway embankment, their high-beam headlights cutting through the blizzard like predatory eyes. One of the riders raised a carbine, aiming through the storm.
Emma swerved violently, the truck fishtailing across the icy dirt road, branches tearing at the side mirrors as she vanished into the dense hemlock forest.
Beside her, Maya sat up, trembling, clutching her stuffed bear to her chest. "Mommy... where is Uncle Arthur?"
Emma gripped the cracked steering wheel, tears finally breaking free and freezing against her wind-burned cheeks. "Uncle Arthur made sure we could be free, Maya. He gave us our chance."
The logging road twisted sharply uphill, climbing into the rugged, forested hills of Saint-Armand, just north of the border. After ten agonizing miles through the blizzard, the headlights caught the silhouette of an old, fortified stone farmhouse sitting alone on a granite ridge.
The headlights of the truck swept across the front porch.
Standing on the porch, waiting in the gale with a shotgun held low across his chest, was a tall, silver-haired man wearing a heavy shearling coat. His face was a hardened, weathered reflection of Emma's own father.
Emma slammed the truck into park and stepped out, lifting Maya into her arms.
"Julian?" she called out into the roaring wind.
The man lowered the weapon, his piercing gray eyes softening with profound relief. "Emma. You made it."
He stepped down off the porch, ushering them quickly toward the heavy oak door. "Get inside. The stove is hot. We don't have much time."
Emma carried Maya into the warm, firelit kitchen. The scent of pine wood and stew filled the room—a stark, shocking contrast to the violent frozen hell they had just fled.
Julian bolted the door with three massive iron latches and turned to face them.
"Is Arthur..." Julian trailed off, his jaw tightening.
"He held them off at the crossing," Emma said, her voice choking. "They shot him, Julian. I had to leave him."
"Arthur did what he was born to do," Julian said solemnly, placing a heavy, warm hand on Emma’s trembling shoulder. "He protected the innocent."
Suddenly, a loud, clear, electronic chime sounded from the center of the kitchen table.
Emma froze.
Sitting on the plain pine table was an open, military-grade satellite laptop. The screen was illuminated with a live, high-resolution video call.
On the screen was not an anonymous hacker or a corporate logo.
It was Eleanor Vance.
She was not in a prison cell. She was sitting in the opulent, leather-paneled interior of a private jet, an intact martini glass resting beside her perfectly manicured fingers. Behind her through the oval window, the lights of an international airport were visible.
Eleanor leaned forward toward the camera, her cold, aristocratic smile returning in full, terrifying force.
"Hello, Emma," Eleanor purred through the laptop speakers, her voice dripping with venomous amusement. "Did you really think the federal marshals worked for the government? You brought my collateral straight to my brother's doorstep, just like Victor said you would. Look out the kitchen window, my dear."
May you like
Emma whipped around to the frosted window facing the ridge.
Through the falling snow, six pairs of headlights were slowly cresting the crest of the hill, surrounding the farmhouse in a perfect, unbreakable circle.
