The flashlight beam swept directly over Peter’s hiding spot. My heart stopped. But the boy had curled himself into a small, tight ball beneath an old, rotting tarp in the corner. The light moved past him without hesitation.
George moved deeper into the barn, his shotgun raised to his shoulder. He passed the front of the tractor, moving into my blind spot. I held my breath, waiting for the sound of his boots to come within range.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic clatter erupted from the hayloft. A raccoon, disturbed by the lights, scurried loudly across the rafters, knocking a loose piece of tin siding to the ground.
Both men snapped their attention upward.
It was the only window of opportunity I was going to get.
I launched myself from the shadows, clearing the massive tractor tire in a single bound. I swung the heavy steel chain in a vicious horizontal arc, aiming not for George’s head, but for the barrel of the shotgun.
The hardened steel wrapped tightly around the long barrel with a deafening clang. Using my full body weight and forward momentum, I ripped the shotgun downward and twisted violently. The weapon was torn from George’s hands, clattering uselessly into the dirt.
George roared in surprise, turning to swing a heavy, looping right hook at my jaw. I ducked beneath it, driving my shoulder directly into his chest. The impact lifted him off his feet, sending him crashing backwards into the rotted wooden wall of the barn.
A sharp crack exploded to my left. Rollins had fired his duty weapon. The bullet splintered the wooden support beam inches from my head, showering me in sharp dust.
I didn’t stop moving. I abandoned the chain, dove forward, and grabbed a rusty metal pitchfork leaning against the stall. I hurled it straight at Rollins, shaft first. The heavy wooden handle slammed heavily into his ribs, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to stagger backward, dropping his flashlight.
“Peter, now!” I roared.
The boy burst from under the tarp like a frightened rabbit. I grabbed his hand, yanking him violently toward the back of the barn, bursting through a rotted section of the rear wall. We tumbled out into the tall brush, scrambling up a steep dirt embankment into the dense, thorny woods behind the property.
We ran blindly through the darkness, the branches tearing at my leather jacket and scratching my face. I could hear George cursing violently behind us, the beam of Rollins’ flashlight frantically searching the tree line, but they didn’t follow into the deep brush. They knew they had the advantage in a siege, not a foot chase in the dark.
I dragged Peter for almost a mile until my lungs burned and my legs felt like lead. We collapsed under the thick canopy of a massive weeping willow tree near a muddy creek bed. The darkness here was absolute, providing a desperately needed shroud.
Peter was gasping for air, trembling violently in the cool night breeze. I leaned against the rough bark of the tree, trying to quiet my heavy breathing.
We had escaped the immediate trap, but the larger situation was dire. We were stranded on foot in the middle of nowhere, hunted by the corrupt local law enforcement and a murderous farm owner.
“You okay, kid?” I asked between heavy breaths, checking him over for injuries in the dark.
He nodded slowly, clutching his knees. “They’re going to kill us.”
“No, they’re not,” I said firmly, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “But we can’t keep running. Rollins controls the radio. Tomorrow morning, every state trooper in Texas will be looking for us. They control the narrative. The only way we get out of this alive is if we change the story.”
I pulled my phone out. Dead battery. Useless.
I looked at the boy. The heavy dog tag in my pocket felt like a burning coal. I realized then that my assumption back in the diner had been completely wrong. I had assumed we needed to run to safety, find a police station outside the county, and report what had happened. But how would that go? A heavily tattooed biker with a criminal record of his own, walking into a precinct claiming a respected local businessman and a deputy were running a slave camp? I’d be arrested on the spot, and Peter would be funneled right back into the system. Right back to George.
“Peter,” I said, looking him directly in the eyes. “You told me Thomas found a notebook in the farm office. A ledger. Does George still have it?”
Peter’s eyes widened slightly in the dark. “Yes. He writes in it every night. He keeps it locked in the bottom drawer of his desk in the main barn. It has all our real names. The state numbers. The money he takes.”
The ledger wasn’t just a record; it was the entire prosecution. If George was pocketing state stipends for missing or dead foster kids, the financial trail would be impossible to deny. It would prove the motive. It would prove everything. But getting it meant walking straight back into the lion’s den.
“You also said you know exactly where Thomas is buried,” I continued gently, needing absolute certainty.