Prologue #3
“Okay, that’s good.” He gave me his email address, then made me repeat it until I’d memorized it. “I need you to watch the guards’ schedules and routes, but don’t take any risks. Stay safe. Check the timing of their patrols and the intervals between each one.”
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“Find a weakness in their patrol, maybe during changeover when they’re busy.
All you need is a ten-minute break in their rounds.
Then you and Ro go out for a walk. We can arrange somewhere to meet, and by the time they realize you’re no longer on the grounds, you’ll be long gone,” Sam said, his composed and confident explanation making it sound so easy.
That flame of hope inside me flared brightly again.
“Can you do this?” he asked me.
“I can,” I said, my conviction surprising even me.
“Stay strong. We’ll bring you home,” Sam said before ending the call.
I opened a browser and found a site that offered a free email account. After setting up an account with a username that was a mix of letters and numbers so nothing could be traced to me, I sent Sam a message with the address. Then, I deleted my browsing history. I wasn’t taking any chances.
After four days of closely watching the patrols, I roughly timed the routes and discovered that during the shift change, they placed guards at the front of the property, leaving the back unattended.
However, there was still the issue of the cameras.
I couldn’t risk everything on the assumption that the person monitoring them wasn’t paying attention, which was where my computer skills would come in handy.
George liked having the most up-to-date gadgets, and his security system was no exception.
That meant everything was online so he could monitor it no matter where he was, but it also meant I could access it.
With just this phone, I could easily manipulate the cameras so whoever was watching would see a recorded loop.
George, so sure of his men and their total loyalty to him, had created a blind spot. All his system needed was one domino to fall. Lucas may have done nothing more than provide me with a phone—something people today took completely for granted—but in less than a week, I had an escape plan.
I emailed Sam the information I’d gathered and resisted the urge to constantly check for his reply. With only two days left before George’s meeting, the hours dragged on, each one stretching across my fleeting resolve.
Finally, on Wednesday night, Sam replied. The butterflies in my stomach went from fluttering to flying. He’d outlined the plan with precision, each step serving as a bridge across the abyss.
Pack a small bag for you and Ro and hide it . Nothing George will miss. We can buy whatever you need when we get you here.
Friday morning, do your magic with the cameras. If you can make it look like they’re still working, that would be great. Call me as soon as his car leaves the house.
Wait for the guards to make their last pass at the back of the house before shift change and go.
I’ve studied online satellite images of George’s compound. Once you leave the house, keep going until you reach the fence, then turn left and keep going. I’ll be waiting for you at the gate.
I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.
See you both soon.
Sam
Smiling, I powered off the phone and stashed it back in the tampon box, confident George would never think to search there.
Distracted with thoughts of what to pack and what to leave behind, I returned to the bedroom.
George asked me something, but I didn’t hear it, and the next thing I knew, he slapped me across the face.
It didn’t matter that he’d marked me again because I knew that would be the last time he’d ever put his hands on me.
I just had to make it through tomorrow morning, then I’d never have to lay eyes on the fucker again.
Then, the moment arrived. The rumble of the garage door echoed through the house, a signal etched into my bones. Moving to the window, I peered through the glass.
The car rolled down the driveway, George at the wheel, unaware that he was driving away from us for the last time. I kept my gaze on the taillights as they grew smaller and smaller until finally disappearing from sight.
I snatched the phone from its hiding place, my fingers trembling. No time to second-guess, no time for fear. I dialed Sam’s number, pressing the cold device against my bruised cheek.
“Sam, it’s Zoey. He’s gone,” I whispered.
“Good. Listen carefully,” Sam said, his tone urgent but controlled. “Get Roland ready, but stay quiet.”
“Okay,” I said, moving swiftly towards my son’s door.
“Did you disable the cameras like we discussed?”
“Yes, about an hour ago, I logged into the system and accessed the cameras. The guards are watching a looped recording, which should give Ro and me time to slip away undetected,” I assured him.
“Have you got a bag packed? Take it, leave everything else. Just take yourselves and the essentials.”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see. “I remember.” I didn’t want anything from this place. All I wanted was my son and our freedom.
“Once you’re both ready, go. Don’t run out of the house—grab a soccer ball or something. Just try to be as calm as possible. Make it look like a normal day’s stroll in the garden with Ro.”
“Got it,” I said, clutching the phone as if it were my only connection to the world.
“I’m waiting for you in a blue Chevrolet at the edge of the estate. Even if the guards see the plates, they’re fake. You’ll be safe once you get there.”
“Thank you,” I said, relief and angst mingling within me.
“Focus. Be quick, be silent. You can do this.”
“Okay,” I said, ending the call.
With trembling hands, I carefully retrieved two backpacks from the back of a shelf in my dimly lit closet, taking extra care not to knock over any stray items. One backpack for Roland, one for me.
Mine was stuffed with underwear, a change of clothes, a few cherished photos, Ro’s birth and schooling certificates, documents we’d need for our new life, and the small amount of cash I had.
Every second counted. My mind raced through the security team’s schedule, rehearsing the narrow window of opportunity.
Not for the first time, I wished I’d been able to pack more in advance, but I couldn’t afford to let George suspect anything.
I entered Ro’s bedroom and gently shook my son awake.
“Mommy?” he mumbled in a drowsy whisper.
“Shh, we need to hurry, sweetie,” I replied, quickly filling the second bag with his clothes, the sound of the zipper echoing in the room.
His green eyes, so much like his father’s yet filled with a warmth George could never claim, met mine.
They held questions that couldn’t be answered now, not when every tick of the clock gnawed at the edges of my mind.
“Is it time?” he asked, standing in his SpongeBob pajamas, clutching his backpack to his chest. He looked so young, making me wonder if I was expecting too much from him to be part of a dangerous escape.
“Almost, baby. Just a bit longer.”
He knew the plan. We’d rehearsed it verbally yesterday, when George was out, but talking something through and physically doing it were two very different endeavors. I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. Any minute now.
The house was eerily silent as I peeked down the hallway. The guard would be stepping away soon. Three minutes to slip into freedom. Three minutes to escape a lifetime of fear.
“Stay close to me.” I led Roland by the hand down to the end of the hallway, where we casually picked up our jackets and a soccer ball. We waited.
My skin prickled with terror. If we were caught, the consequences would be dire. George’s wrath was a vicious beast unleashed by the slightest provocation. I couldn’t let that happen again. Not in front of Roland.
“We’re really going, right? We’re not coming back?”
I crouched down to his level, smoothing back the black hair that fell over his brow. “Yes, baby. We’re leaving, and we’re not coming back.” I hated that he had to be part of this, but there was no other way.
His nod was brave, an echo of silent promises that no child should have to make. His gaze held the haunting memories of too many witnessed horrors, and the unspoken vow to defend me against his own father. It was more than enough to fuel my resolve.
“Stay quiet, stay close,” I reminded him, every word trembling with barely contained urgency.
The guard’s footsteps receded down the hallway. Our signal. I stood, taking Roland’s hand once more. We slipped out of the corridor, my heart hammering with an anxious intensity.
This was it.
Our escape was a blur of rushed movements and stifled breaths. We darted through the dimly lit corridors of the house I’d once called home, a place that now felt like a prison shedding its walls, brick by brick.
“Almost there,” I said as we reached the back door, the one left unattended as the guards changed shifts. It was our best chance.
And then, we were outside, the cool air of freedom harsh against my skin. The vast expanse of the estate loomed around us.
“Keep walking,” I said to Roland in a hushed whisper, even as my lungs screamed for relief.
We crossed the grounds, the grass whispering beneath our feet, following Sam’s directions until the outline of a car materialized from the morning gloom.
“Get in!” Sam called out, and we flung ourselves into the backseat of the waiting vehicle.
As the car peeled away, I risked a glance back through tear-blurred eyes. Left behind, the house’s overwhelming presence gradually diminished, merging with the fading scenery.
“You’re safe now,” Sam said, his voice a steady anchor amid the storm of emotions crashing over me.
I collapsed against the seat, pulling Roland close as sobs shook my body. Safety, a word so foreign yet so fiercely desired, wrapped around us, a promise whispered on the winds of change.
Noah
Sweat still dripped down my face as I stood in front of the sea of reporters, microphones shoved in my direction like they were trying to catch the very last breath I’d take as a boxer.
“Today,” I started, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside me, “I’m hanging up the gloves.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a blend of surprise and speculation. Camera flashes punctuated the moment like tiny lightning strikes, capturing the end of an era.
“I’ve given everything to this sport, but it’s time for something new,” I continued.
“Is there a reason for your sudden retirement, Noah?” one of the reporters called out.
I paused, considering how much to reveal. There was no going back after this.
“Let’s just say there are responsibilities that need my attention,” I answered. “It’s been an honor fighting all these years, but now, I have to fight for something... or someone else.”
“Who?” another reporter shouted, sensing a story behind the words.
“Personal matters,” I said tersely, shutting down any further questions on that front. “But thank you—all of you—for the support throughout my career.”
As I stepped away from the podium, the finality of it all settled over me. The chapter of Noah Alexander, prizefighter, was closing, but the pages of a new journey were just beginning to turn.
Surrounded by a sea of journalists and fans, I skillfully navigated through the chaos, ignoring the persistent journalists while taking the time to stop and speak with grateful fans, exchanging quiet murmurs of thanks and taking selfies here and there.
As I stood in the bustling changing room, a fellow boxer removed the weighty gloves from my hands, and I tore at the tapes that had bound my hands underneath. All I wanted was to shower and leave.
With a soft thud, I closed the car door behind me, instantly silencing the sounds of the fans and journalists outside. My hands were still trembling with adrenaline as they found my phone in my jacket pocket.
I unlocked the screen, and there was the text from months ago, sitting at the top of the message thread like it had been waiting for me. I read it again, even though the words were etched in my memory.
Son, you need to come home. In a year’s time, I’ll begin to lose the power of the alpha. It’s time for you to take your place. Prepare yourself .
Each word was a stone that settled heavier in my stomach whenever I reread the text. Dad never was one for unnecessary chatter. His texts were always as blunt as his expectations.
My thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the letters as if I could draw out more time, more options from them. But deep down, I knew there weren’t any. This was my duty. A duty I hadn’t planned for, hadn’t wanted, but couldn’t deny.
I leaned back against the seat, catching sight of the scar on my eyebrow in the rear-view mirror—a reminder of fights past and the new fight ahead. Noah Alexander the boxer may be history, but the role of alpha couldn’t care less about who I was meant to be or not.
“Guess it’s time to go home,” I said to the empty car. Duty called, and I couldn’t let the pack down. Not now, not ever.