Chapter 10 - The Riverbank
The blinding glare of the flashlights pinned Clara, Elena, and Diego like animals in a trap. Diego stepped in front of Clara immediately, raising the flat-head shovel he had carried all the way through the mire, his jaw locked in defiant terror.
"Drop the garden tool, son," a voice rasped from behind the light. It wasn't a mercenary's voice. It was raspy, aged, and carried the slow drawl of a lifelong river rat.
The lights dipped downward, revealing an elderly Black man wearing faded canvas overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat, holding an ancient lever-action Winchester rifle cradled casually in the crook of his arm. Standing beside him was Hank, the construction crew’s dump truck driver, his knuckles scraped and his reflective vest coated in grime.
"Hank!" Diego breathed, lowering the shovel as his knees nearly buckled with relief.
"Told Marcus I’d have the boat waiting at the culvert outlet," Hank said, stepping forward into the mud to take Clara’s arm. "Good thing we heard the ruckus up at Miller’s place. Come on, girl. We got a flat-bottom skiff tucked into the reeds."
"Where is Marcus?" Clara demanded, refusing to move another step until she had an answer. Her hand gripped Hank’s dirty sleeve with surprising strength. "Hank, the gunfire stopped. Where is he?"
Hank’s eyes shifted toward the smoking silhouette of the warehouse on the ridge above the trees. A column of thick, black smoke was rising into the twilight sky, lit from below by orange tongues of fire. "Marcus knows how to handle himself, Clara. He bought us the only window we’re gonna get. If we don't get you across the county line before Pendelton’s people regroup, everything he did up there was for nothing."
Elena pushed Clara gently forward. "He’s right, Clara. We have to think of the child. Look at me—breathe. One step at a time."
They dragged themselves through the thick marsh grass until the muddy bank gave way to the sluggish, brown waters of the Blackwood River. Hidden beneath a canopy of weeping willows sat a battered aluminum jon boat powered by an old outboard motor. The old man helped Clara onto the wooden bench seat, wrapping a heavy wool blanket around her shivering shoulders.
Diego tossed the canvas bag into the bow, then climbed in after Elena. Hank shoved the boat off the mud bank with his boot, wading waist-deep into the cold current before pulling himself over the transom. The old man pulled the starter cord; the small two-stroke engine sputtered once, coughed up a cloud of blue smoke, and settled into a muffled, rhythmic hum.
As the skiff slipped silently into the main channel, drifting beneath the shadows of overhanging cypress trees, Clara stared back at the burning warehouse on the bluff.
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Through the trees, a lone figure staggered out of the burning bay door onto the gravel drive, silhouetted against the roaring inferno. The figure dropped to one knee, struggled, and stood back up, clutching an iron pipe. Surrounding him, three black SUVs slowly turned their high beams onto the lone man, cutting off all avenues of escape.
Clara clutched the blanket to her chest, her knuckles turning white, as the boat rounded the river bend and swallowed the scene in darkness.
