Chapter 4 - The Midnight Flight
The moment the rumble of Alistair’s black Mercedes faded into the distance, Monica collapsed against the wall, sliding down until she hit the cold dirt floor. A dry, wracking sob tore from her throat, but she muffled it immediately with her hand so she wouldn't wake her daughters.
They had bought themselves some time. Hours, maybe a day. But Alistair Vance was relentless. Once his men realized the signal wasn't a dead end—once they pieced together that a newborn baby had suddenly appeared in the hands of a former Vance employee living in the slums—they would scour every inch of this district.
"Mom?"
Emily’s sleepy voice broke the silence. The little girl sat up, rubbing her eyes, looking around the wrecked doorway with wide, frightened eyes. "Where did the bad men go?"
Monica scrambled up, wiping her face frantically with her sleeve. She rushed over to the mattress and began gathering their few meager belongings—a spare blanket, a half-loaf of stale bread, the bag of plastic bottles they had collected yesterday, and the small stash of cash hidden inside an old coffee tin.
"We have to go, Emily. Wake Grace up gently," Monica commanded, her voice urgent but controlled.
"Go? Where?" Grace asked, rubbing her cheek against her sleeve as she climbed out of bed, still half-asleep. "In the dark?"
"Yes, sweetheart. We're going on an adventure," Monica said, scooping the cardboard box containing the baby into her arms. The infant stirred, letting out a tiny, sleepy sigh that melted her heart all over again. "We're going to catch the morning freight train north, toward the mountains. Where the city can't reach us."
They didn't pack light because they had too much; they packed light because everything they owned fit into two plastic sacks.
Minutes later, they slipped out the back window of the shack into the labyrinthine alleys of the slums. The wind was biting, freezing their fingers and stinging their cheeks, but Monica didn't dare use the main roads. She navigated the dark, labyrinthine maze of rusted corrugated iron and overflowing dumpsters by memory alone, her daughters clinging tightly to the hems of her jacket.
Behind them, unbeknownst to Monica, a lone figure stood in the shadows near the end of the alley.
It was Marcus, Alistair’s most trusted head of security. He had stayed behind while the others left, hiding behind a stack of shipping crates. He had noticed the way Monica’s body had tensed when Alistair stepped toward the corner. He had seen the way she shielded the cardboard box with her entire body.
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Marcus pulled a small radio comms unit to his mouth, his eyes locked on the shadowy figures of Monica and the two little girls disappearing into the pre-dawn mist.
"Boss," Marcus whispered into the receiver. "You're not going to believe this. The lead wasn't dead. She has the kid."
