Chapter 4 - The Hunter and the Hunted
The cellar was dirt-floored and freezing, the walls lined with shelves of canned goods and old mason jars. I found the tunnel entrance behind a stack of crates — a narrow hole dug into the hillside, braced with rotting wooden beams. I crawled in, the laptop case scraping against the earthen ceiling, the pistol clutched in my other hand. Behind me, the sounds of gunfire erupted — sharp, deafening cracks that made the dirt rain down on me from above.
I didn’t stop. I crawled as fast as I could, my knees and hands raw against the cold earth, until the tunnel sloped upward and I saw starlight ahead. I burst out into the brush beside a small, fast-moving creek, gasping for air, and scrambled to my feet.
The cabin was visible through the trees, its windows glowing orange in the night. Flames licked at the roof — they’d set it on fire. More gunshots rang out. I stood frozen, torn, every instinct screaming at me to go back, to help him.
Then I heard it: a deep, guttural scream. Cut short.
My father.
I sank to my knees, the pistol falling from my hand into the leaves. He was gone. Again. This time for real. The man who’d faked his death once to protect us had now actually died doing the same thing.
I don’t know how long I sat there, the cold seeping into my bones, watching the cabin burn. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. But when I heard voices — rough, male voices, calling to each other from the edge of the woods — I snapped back to reality.
They were coming. They’d seen me escape. They were hunting me.
I grabbed the pistol, wiped the dirt off on my coat, and ran.
I followed the creek north, staying low in the underbrush, moving from tree to tree. The laptop case was a dead weight against my shoulder, but I didn’t dare drop it. It was the only thing that made my father’s death mean something. The only thing that could keep my family alive.
I ran for what felt like miles, my lungs burning, my legs screaming in protest. The terrain grew rougher, steeper, the trees thinning out as I climbed higher into the mountains. Dawn was just beginning to break, painting the sky in shades of gray and pale pink, when I finally collapsed against the trunk of a massive oak, unable to go another step.
I checked my phone. No signal. Dead, anyway — the battery had died somewhere in the tunnel. I opened the laptop. It still had power, but the warning was gone. I’d lost them. For now.
I needed help. I needed to get to Philadelphia, to the safe house Voss had mentioned. But I had no car, no phone, no money. Just a laptop full of evidence and a gun with one bullet left in the magazine — I’d counted.
I thought of Celeste again. Of my kids. If Vandenberg’s men had found the cabin, they’d know the plan. They’d know I was heading to Philadelphia. And they’d know the only way to get to me was through my family.
I had to warn them. Somehow.
I stood, wincing at the stiffness in my legs, and started walking again, following an old logging road I’d found that headed roughly west. An hour later, I rounded a bend and saw it: a small general store, its neon OPEN sign flickering in the early morning light. A payphone stood on a pole outside.
I approached cautiously, staying in the trees until I was sure there were no black SUVs parked out front. The lot was empty except for an old pickup truck with a WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA sticker on the back window. I stepped out of the woods, crossed the road, and picked up the receiver.
I fumbled in my pocket for change. A quarter. Two dimes. A nickel. Enough for one call.
I dialed Celeste’s number from memory. My hand was shaking so badly I almost dropped the coins.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” Her voice. Sleepy. Scared. My throat tightened.
“Celeste,” I said. “It’s me. Don’t say my name. Just listen.”
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Julian? Oh my God, where are you? Your mother’s been frantic — the police are here — everyone thinks —”
“Celeste, stop,” I said, my voice urgent. “You have to get the kids and get out of the house. Right now. Don’t pack anything. Just go. Drive to your sister’s in Vermont. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Don’t call your mother. Don’t call the police. Just go. Do you understand me?”
“Julian, you’re scaring me,” she said. Her voice was trembling now. “What’s happening? The detective said you left the cemetery with some woman — that you might be in danger —”
“I am in danger,” I said. “And so are you. The men who are after me — they’re very bad people, Celeste. They won’t hesitate to hurt you or the kids to get to me. You have to leave. Now. I’ll explain everything when I can. I promise. But you have to trust me.”
Silence on the line. Then, in a small, steady voice that made me love her more than I ever had: “Okay. We’ll go. Vermont. Your dad’s old hunting cabin by the lake, right? The one only we know about?”
I closed my eyes. Our cabin. The one we’d bought together after our honeymoon. The one no one else — not even my parents — knew the exact location of. “Yes,” I said. “That’s perfect. Lay low there. Don’t contact anyone. I’ll find you when it’s safe.”
“Julian,” she said. “Whatever you’re doing — whatever your father was mixed up in — be careful. Please. The kids need their dad. I need my husband.”
“I will,” I said. “I love you. Tell the kids I love them. More than anything.”
I hung up before I could say anything else, before I could break down. I leaned against the phone pole, my eyes burning, and took a deep breath. They’d be safe. They’d go to the cabin. Vandenberg would never find them there.
I turned to walk away — and froze.
May you like
Standing in the doorway of the general store, a shotgun leveled at my chest, was an old woman in a flannel shirt and overalls. Her white hair was pulled into a tight bun. Her eyes were sharp as tacks.
“Put the gun down, son,” she said. Her voice was like gravel. “Nice and slow. Before I blow a hole in you big enough to drive a truck through.”
