Chapter 4 - The Ridge Trail
The ATV tore through the dense timberland, its dual headlights cutting erratic, blinding arcs through the whipping tree branches and driving rain. Natalie gripped the handlebars so hard her knuckles turned ghostly white, the freezing wind tearing at her jacket and blinding her with sheets of water.
Behind her, the muffled pop of suppressed gunfire echoed through the trees, snapping twigs overhead and chewing through the bark of an old maple tree. They were tracking her by the sound of the engine.
Think, Natalie, think! she screamed internally, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
She couldn't lead them back to the main highway; checkpoints would be set up within minutes. Her only option was the abandoned logging trail that wound upward toward Blackwood Ridge—a treacherous, washout-prone mountain path that local hunters avoided even in the summer. In a torrential November downpour, it was a vertical death trap.
She wrenched the handlebars hard to the left, taking the narrow fork that vanished into the thickest part of the canopy. The ATV fishtailed violently in the deep mud, its tires spinning out before catching traction against a hidden bed of slate rock. She bounced hard over exposed tree roots, the suspension groaning in protest as she climbed higher into the mountain.
Ten minutes later, lungs burning from the freezing air and muscles cramping from tension, she cut the engine and coasted into a dense cluster of towering hemlock trees. The evergreen canopy acted like a natural umbrella, cutting the rain down to a steady, heavy drip.
She killed the lights, plunging herself into absolute darkness.
For several long minutes, she sat astride the idling machine, listening intently. Below her, the faint, low rumble of a vehicle engine could be heard idling near the bottom of the ridge. They were searching the lower fork, hesitant to bring a heavy syndicate SUV up the treacherous logging trail.
Natalie pulled her phone from her waterproof jacket pocket. The screen lit up with a cracked, glowing display. No Service. Out here in the deep shadow of Blackwood Ridge, cell towers were a myth. She couldn't call the police. Even if she could, Dante’s warning echoed in her mind: They own the dispatcher.
She was entirely on her own.
"Mama?"
A small, sleepy voice piped up from behind her.
Natalie gasped, nearly dropping the handlebars. She spun around on the seat. Clutched tightly in a bulky winter coat behind her wasn't a seat cushion—it was a heavy-duty camping backpack she always kept packed near the mudroom, and wrapped inside its straps was Liam.
Her breath hitched. In the sheer, blind panic of fleeing the cabin, she hadn't realized her son had woken up, climbed down the stairs, and grabbed onto her jacket as she ran out the back door. Her maternal instincts had been so fried by adrenaline that she had dragged a seven-year-old boy straight into a war zone without even knowing it.
"Liam!" she cried out, dropping the handlebars and throwing her arms around him, pulling him off the back of the ATV and crushing him against her chest. "Oh, sweetie, are you okay? Did you get hurt?"
Liam blinked sleepily in the dark, his small hands clutching the stuffed brown bear he refused to let go of. "It's cold, Mama. Why are we outside in the rain? Where's our house?"
Tears mixed with the rainwater streaming down Natalie's face. She cupped his cold cheeks with her trembling hands. "We're on an adventure, buddy. A little camping trip. Remember when we talked about exploring the mountains?"
The boy looked around at the towering, shadowy trees looming in the dark, the sound of the wind howling through the gorge below. He wasn't stupid. He was a smart, intuitive seven-year-old. "There are bad men at the house, aren't there?"
Natalie’s heart shattered. She pulled him tighter, burying her face in his damp hair. "I'm going to keep you safe, Liam. I promise you, I will never let anything happen to you."
Suddenly, a sharp crunch of gravel echoed from fifty yards down the trail.
Footsteps. Someone was climbing the ridge on foot.
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Natalie froze, holding her breath, her hand sliding back into her jacket pocket to grip her metal penlight like a dagger. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, accompanied by the sweeping beam of a high-powered tactical flashlight cutting through the hemlock trees.
They had found her tracks.
