Chapter 4 - The Safehouse
The SUV tore through the pitch-black back roads of Bellhaven, bypassing the main highways where county deputies were already responding to reports of gunfire.
In the backseat, Gabriel kept heavy pressure on Emma’s shoulder. She groaned softly, twisting against the leather seats as another sharp, agonizing contraction gripped her abdomen.
“Hold on,” Gabriel murmured, reaching up with his free hand to wipe sweat from her cold forehead. “Breathe through it, Emma. Slowly.”
She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, her fingers gripping his wrist with surprising strength. “Who are you?... Why did they... why did Nolan shoot me?”
“Nolan Pike is a fixer for Blackridge Industrial,” Gabriel explained, his voice low and steady. “They wanted Cole Mercer. What does your fiancé do for them?”
Emma swallowed hard, a fresh tear trailing down her pale cheek. “He’s... he’s a logistics manager at their marine terminal... He called me three nights ago... said he found financial records... double-entry ledgers showing chemical waste dumping and illegal arms shipments moving through the port...”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. Everything clicked into place. Cole Mercer had uncovered Blackridge’s dark underbelly, and when he went into hiding, Pike assumed he had left the evidence with his pregnant wife.
“Did he give you anything?” Gabriel asked.
“No!” Emma wept. “He told me to stay at my mother’s house... he said he would meet me in Raleigh... I swear I didn't know anything about a thumb drive!”
“I believe you,” Gabriel said.
Twenty minutes later, the SUV pulled through a hidden iron gate tucked deep inside a dense pine forest near Oak Ridge. The safehouse was a reinforced brick lodge, fully equipped with independent power generators, satellite communications, and a private medical suite.
Vincent threw open the double doors as Dr. Marcus Thorne—a trusted physician who had handled emergency field trauma for the Moretti family for fifteen years—ran out with two armed guards holding a stretcher.
“How bad is it, Gabriel?” Thorne asked as they transferred Emma inside under bright surgical lights.
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“Gunshot wound to the right shoulder, non-critical,” Gabriel reported, walking alongside the gurney. “Placental distress and premature labor. She’s thirty-one weeks.”
Thorne checked Emma’s vitals rapidly, his face turning grim. “Her blood pressure is dropping. The stress of the wound triggered advanced labor. I need to deliver this child within the hour, Gabriel, or we lose them both.”
