Chapter 15
They sprinted across the lot, Sarah's ankle screaming with every step. Behind them, the facility lit up like a Christmas tree—searchlights, emergency vehicles, guards pouring out.
"There." The SUV sat exactly where they'd left it, anonymous among other vehicles.
Griff had the engine running before Sarah's door closed. He pulled out slowly, calmly, another late-night shopper heading home. Behind them, sirens wailed. Red and blue lights painted the sky.
How he found the calm to drive so normally, she had no idea.
Her hands shook so badly she had to clasp them together.
"We did it," she breathed. "We actually—"
"We've got company," Griff said, eyes on the rearview.
Two sets of headlights appeared behind them, maintaining perfect spacing. No lights, no sirens.
"FBI?" she asked.
"My guess is Stillwater." Griff's hands tightened on the wheel. "They were expecting us."
The headlights suddenly accelerated. A third vehicle appeared from a side street ahead, trying to box them in.
"Hold on."
Griff yanked the wheel hard right, tires screaming. The SUV tilted dangerously, then slammed back down. Sarah's head cracked against the window. Behind them, engines roared.
The vehicle ahead tried to ram them. Griff somehow threaded between it and a parked car, metal shrieking against metal.
Then the rear window exploded.
"Down." Griff shoved her head below the dashboard as more bullets peppered the SUV. The engine coughed, stuttered. They were losing speed.
"Tree line." Griff shouted. "When I say run—"
The SUV lurched sideways as another vehicle slammed into them. They spun wildly, Sarah's stomach heaving. The guardrail rushed toward them—
Impact. Airbags exploded in her face. Everything went white, then gray, then sharp with pain.
"Move. Now." Griff was dragging her from the vehicle. Her ears rang. Blood ran into her eyes from a cut on her forehead.
Gunfire erupted behind them. The tree line was fifty yards away but might as well have been a mile. Sarah ran, her ankle forgotten in the surge of adrenaline, Griff pulling her forward.
Twenty yards. Ten. Almost there—
Griff suddenly stumbled, his grip on her arm loosening. "Keep going."
That's when Sarah saw the blood spreading across his shoulder, dark and wet in the moonlight. Blood streaked his shoulder, and the raw chemical burn still marked his face, lending him the look of a man carved out of pain and fury. He didn’t slow.
"You're hit."
"It's nothing." But his face had gone pale, and the blood kept coming. "Run."
Boots crashed through underbrush. Flashlight beams swept the darkness. Someone shouted coordinates into a radio.
Sarah got her shoulder under Griff's good arm, taking his weight. "Pick up the pace, Buttercup."
They stumbled deeper into the woods, Griff's breathing getting more labored with each step. The flash drive burned in Sarah's pocket—evidence that could bring down a conspiracy, if they lived long enough to use it.
"There," Griff pointed through the trees with his good arm. "The highway."
Sarah could see it now—Route 50, six lanes of empty asphalt at this hour. But between them and the road was a steep embankment, chain-link fence, and absolutely no cover.
"They'll pick us off the second we try to cross," she said.
"Not crossing. Under." Griff gestured to a dark opening at the base of the embankment where the trees ended. A drainage culvert, large enough to stand in at the edge of the highway. "Storm drain."
"They'll trap us in there," she protested.
"They'll trap us out here." Griff's legs were getting unsteady, his weight heavier on her shoulder. "In there, we can at least control the access points. Buy time."
A bullet cracked into a tree, inches from Sarah's head. No more debate.
They half-ran, half-fell down the embankment, Griff's blood leaving a trail she couldn't do anything about. The culvert mouth yawned before them—corrugated metal, rust-stained concrete, absolute darkness beyond the first few feet.
"In," Griff commanded, his tactical authority cutting through even his pain. "Now."