Chapter 7 - Unlikely Allies
By sunrise, I had walked four miles along a dirt logging trail until I hit the outskirts of an industrial district on the edge of the city.
I looked like a ghost—hair matted with leaves, face bruised and smeared with dried blood, wearing ruined, blood-stained clothes. People on the morning streets recoiled when they saw me, thinking I was an unhoused addict or an escaped convict.
I needed help. But I couldn't go to the police; Victoria’s brother was a former deputy chief of police with deep connections. I couldn't go to a public hospital.
I had only one name left in my head: Sarah Jenkins. The surrogate.
I walked into a greasy 24-hour diner. The cashier—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a tattoo of an anchor on her forearm—looked at me with a mix of shock and deep concern.
“Honey,” she said, stepping around the counter. “What happened to you? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
“No!” I gasped, grabbing her apron. “Please... no ambulances. No police. Please.”
The woman looked at my bleeding feet, my hand clutching my surgical wound, and the terrified, desperate fire in my eyes. She didn't ask questions. She led me into the back employee breakroom, sat me down on a plastic chair, and brought out a first-aid kit, a pair of oversized rubber slip-on shoes, and a hot cup of black coffee.
“I’m Martha,” she said softly, wrapping a clean bandage tight around my lower abdomen. “You look like you just escaped hell.”
“I did,” I whispered, taking a scalding sip of coffee. “Martha... I need to find someone. A woman named Sarah Jenkins. I don't have money, but if you let me use your phone for five minutes, I swear I’ll repay you for the rest of my life.”
Martha looked at me for a long moment, then reached into her pocket and handed me her personal smartphone. “Do what you need to do, honey.”
I dialed a number I had memorized years ago—the private line of Marcus Vance, a brilliant, cynical investigative journalist who had once exposed corporate health insurance fraud in our city. He was a man who hated wealthy corruption more than anything in the world.
The phone rang three times before a deep, raspy voice answered. “Vance.”
“Marcus,” I breathed. “It’s Clara Mercer.”
A long pause on the line. “Clara? Where the hell are you? The local news has been blasting your face for six hours. The police released a bulletin—they say you suffered acute psychiatric collapse, attacked your doctor, and fled into the woods. They say you’re dangerous.”
“It’s a lie, Marcus!” I cried out, holding back a sob. “Victoria and Daniel swapped my baby! They run an illegal elite surrogacy trafficking ring called Project Horizon out of Oakridge Hospital!”
Silence stretched across the line.
“Where are you right now?” Marcus asked, his tone dropping all cynical sarcasm, replacing it with sharp, professional focus.
An hour later, a battered gray Volvo pulled into the alley behind the diner. Marcus Vance—a tall, unkempt man in his late 40s wearing a crumpled trench coat—stepped out. He rushed into the breakroom, taking one look at my condition and cursing under his breath.
“You look like hell, Clara,” he said, pulling a leather notebook from his coat. “Tell me everything. From the wristband to the safe.”
For the next forty minutes, I told him every single detail: the crescent birthmark, Dr. Keller’s terror, Nurse Chen’s warning, the double surrogacy ledger, and Sarah Jenkins.
Marcus listened without interrupting, writing notes furiously in his pad. When I finished, he ran a hand over his stubbled chin and let out a low whistle.
“Project Horizon,” Marcus muttered. “I’ve heard whispers about that name for two years. I thought it was an urban legend—a rumor that Oakridge was offering ultra-wealthy, infertile elite couples 'guaranteed genetic perfection' by using secret surrogates and unauthorized genetic harvesting.”
“It’s real, Marcus,” I said, leaning forward. “My biological daughter was born on March twelfth to Sarah Jenkins. They took her. Where is Sarah?”
Marcus pulled out his tablet and tapped the screen. “Sarah Jenkins... let’s see. I have access to private investigative databases. Here she is. Sarah Jenkins, 28. Former nursing assistant. Registered address: 142 Elmwood Lane, District 4.”
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He looked up at me, his eyes dark. “If Sarah was the surrogate who carried your biological child... she might not even know her baby was stolen and replaced. Or worse—she might be in on it.”
“We’re going to find out,” I said, standing up despite the agonizing pain in my side. “Drive me there.”
