They sprinted through the subterranean labyrinth, pipes rattling, emergency lights glowing a sickly yellow above their heads. The air grew hotter, thicker, smelling of scorched oil and sulfur. Dana tracked their position through the maze using internal geometry, counting turns, heading eastward toward the service exit that surfaced near the campus perimeter.
Behind them, the sounds of pursuit echoed through the iron piping—the heavy footsteps of deputies, the sharp barking of a police K-9 unit being deployed down the stairs.
They brought dogs! Marcus shouted, panic rising in his throat as the deep, vicious baying of a German Shepherd echoed off the concrete walls.
Dana pulled an emergency valve release lever on the main steam manifold as they ran past. A blinding wall of superheated, pressurized vapor erupted into the corridor behind them, masking their scent and creating an impassable barrier of heat that would stop the dogs cold.
Ahead of them, a rusted iron ladder led upward toward an emergency street grate.
Climb! Dana ordered.
Marcus scrambled up the iron rungs, his hands slipping on the damp metal, but fear gave him strength. He shoved the heavy circular cast-iron grate aside with his shoulders and tumbled out onto the wet grass of the campus tree line. Dana was up behind him a second later, replacing the grate with a dull, heavy thud.
The storm was raging with apocalyptic fury. Rain poured in sheets, obscuring the campus buildings in a curtain of gray water. Two hundred yards away, tucked beneath the weeping willow trees near the perimeter fence, sat Dana’s battered pickup truck.
They ran through the mud, their boots sinking deep, the cold rain washing away the blood and sweat from their faces. Dana unlocked the truck, shoved Marcus into the passenger seat, leaped behind the wheel, and turned the ignition.
The engine turned over once, hesitated, and then roared to life with a deep, throaty growl.
Dana slammed the transmission into reverse, whipped the truck around in a tight arc across the grass, and punched the accelerator. The tires caught the asphalt of the perimeter access road, sending plumes of water shooting into the air as they blew past the campus exit.
Marcus leaned his head against the cold glass of the window, his breath fogging the pane. He watched the flashing lights of the police cars receding into the distance, surrounded by the only world he had ever known.
It’s all gone, Marcus whispered, his voice hollow, completely drained of life. Everything my dad built. My whole life. It was all a lie.
It was a cage, Dana said, her eyes fixed on the rain-swept highway ahead as she accelerated toward the county line. Julian broke the lock three years ago. Tonight, you finally stepped out of it.
Where are we going? Marcus asked, turning to look at her. They own this county. They own the highway patrol. There’s nowhere in Ohio we can hide from my father.
We’re not hiding, Dana said, reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a heavy, encrypted satellite phone. She flipped it open and dialed an eleven-digit secure frequency.
She pressed the phone to her ear. A voice answered on the second ring, flat, professional, and chillingly familiar.
Commander Callaway, the voice said. What is your status?
Status is green, Admiral, Dana said, her voice steady as iron. The package is secure. The target has engaged law enforcement assets to cover a domestic execution. I need a federal tactical team deployed to Ridgefield, Ohio, immediately.
Understood, Commander, the Admiral replied. Where are you heading?
Dana looked at the rear-view mirror, watching the dark highway stretch out behind them into the stormy night.
I’m taking Marcus to the only place Richard Vance can’t touch us, Dana said, her voice dropping into a deadly, unshakeable promise. We are going to the federal courthouse in Columbus. And when the sun comes up tomorrow, we are burning Richard Vance’s empire to the ground.
The wipers slapped against the windshield in a furious, frantic rhythm, doing almost nothing to displace the sheets of torrential rain drowning State Route 9. The highway cut through the jagged, forested ridges of eastern Ohio, an endless ribbon of cracked asphalt bordered by steep limestone embankments on one side and sheer, fifty-foot drop-offs into swollen creek beds on the other. It was two in the morning, and the world beyond the reach of the truck’s trembling halogen headlights was pure, suffocating ink.
