Chapter 7 - THE UNLIKELY ALLY
I collapsed against the hood of the yellow truck just as the driver turned around with an iron crowbar in his hand.
“What the hell—” the man shouted, dropping his crowbar in shock as my bleeding, mud-soaked frame slid down his bumper.
“Help me…” I gasped, my voice barely a rattle. “Please… they’re trying… to take my baby…”
The driver rushed forward, pulling me up by my arms. Under his yellow oilskin hood was a weathered face, dark eyes, and a thick gray beard.
It was Sam Miller—a local lobsterman who had been fighting Victor Hale’s firm for three years over the illegal dumping of chemical waste into the local bay. I recognized his face from a local newspaper article I had read months ago.
Sam looked at my bare, bleeding feet, my wet nightgown, the terrified expression in my eyes, and the red folder tucked inside my dress.
Then he looked up the hill, where three pairs of heavy flashlights were emerging from the tree line.
“Hale’s security guys?” Sam asked sharply.
I nodded violently, my jaw locked in a rhythmic chatter.
Sam didn't ask another question. He grabbed me under my arms, lifted me effortlessly into the warm passenger cab of his truck, and slammed the door shut.
He jumped into the driver’s seat, shoved the manual gearshift into reverse, and slammed his foot on the accelerator just as two of Daniel’s security guards burst through the bushes onto the asphalt.
“HEY! STOP THAT VEHICLE!” a guard screamed, drawing a gun.
Sam threw the truck into first gear, turning the steering wheel hard. The heavy steel bumper clipped the guard’s hip, sending him sprawling into the mud, and the truck roared down the coastal road into the blinding rain.
“You okay, lady?” Sam yelled over the roaring heater. He reached behind his seat and threw a heavy wool blanket over my soaking shoulders.
“They… they drugged me,” I sobbed, clutching the heater vents as warmth slowly began to return to my freezing hands. “They’re going to kill me to take my baby.”
Sam checked his side mirror. Two pairs of blinding headlights were swinging onto the road behind us—Daniel’s heavy black SUVs.
“Those big rigs will outrun this old bucket in three miles,” Sam growled, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight. “Where do you need to go? The local police department?”
“NO!” I screamed. “The police chief is on Victor Hale’s payroll! He attends their charity galas every month! They’ll just call Daniel to come pick me up!”
Sam cursed under his breath, leaning over the wheel as the storm beat down on the windshield.
“Alright,” Sam said grimly. “We aren't going to the cops. We’re going to Boston. My daughter is a lead investigative reporter for the New England Herald. She’s been looking for a hole in Victor Hale’s armor for five years.”
He pulled a heavy rugged phone from his dashboard mount, hit a speed dial, and put it on speakerphone.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Dad? It’s four in the morning, is everything okay with the boat?” a sharp female voice asked over the speaker.
“Kelly,” Sam said, his voice as hard as flint. “I’ve got Claire Hale in my truck. She’s bleeding, she’s pregnant, and she’s got a folder full of Victor Hale’s dark secrets. Get your legal team and two state troopers to your office right now.”
Silence fell over the phone.
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“Did you say Claire Hale?” Kelly Miller gasped. “The wife of Daniel Hale?”
“She’s escaping them, Kel,” Sam said, looking back at the headlights closing in on our rear bumper. “And if you don't get those state troopers ready, none of us are making it to breakfast.”
