Chapter 6 - Severed Ties
The jet of pressurized water struck Pendelton with the force of a battering ram, knocking the firearm clean from his grip and throwing him violently against the cedar fence. The revolver clattered across the wet grass, disappearing into the churned mud.
"Move!" Marcus bellowed, grabbing Clara by the waist and lifting her over the sodden lawn toward the back alley.
Trent lunged forward through the spray, blindly reaching for Clara’s arm. "You're not leaving with my child!" he screamed, his fingers catching the hem of her blue dress.
Clara didn't hesitate. Fueled by months of suppressed terror and motherly instinct, she swung her father's heavy canvas bag with both hands, the solid metal brass buckles on the base catching Trent squarely across the cheekbone. The blow sent him spinning into the mud, clutching his face in agony.
"Stay away from my baby!" Clara shouted, turning back to Marcus as Diego flung the alley gate wide.
Waiting in the alley was Marcus's battered, dark green Ford F-250, engine purring with a steady, low rumble. Diego held the passenger door open, helping Clara climb into the high cab, taking care not to jostle her injured hip. Marcus leaped into the driver’s seat, while Diego hopped into the bed behind them, hammering his fist twice on the cab roof to signal all clear.
Marcus slammed the transmission into reverse, tearing out of the alley just as two black-and-white county cruiser interceptors turned onto Maple Crest Drive, their sirens blaring in an ominous, synchronized wail. The cruisers didn't stop at the front lawn; one of them immediately peeled off, accelerating toward the alley entrance.
"They're on us," Diego yelled through the sliding rear window, ducking low against the truck bed.
Marcus shifted into drive, stomping the accelerator. The heavy tires gripped the gravel of the utility road, fishtailing slightly before rocketing forward toward the commercial district. In the rearview mirror, Marcus watched the police cruiser struggle to navigate the tight, rutted alley.
Clara sat hunched in the passenger seat, both hands clutching her abdomen. Her breathing was ragged, small whimpers escaping her lips with every bump in the road. "Marcus... something's wrong."
Marcus glanced over, his stern face fracturing with sudden alarm. "What is it? Are you bleeding?"
"Cramps," she whispered, her face pale as parchment, beads of cold sweat gathering along her hairline. "Sharp cramps. It's too early... I'm only thirty-two weeks."
Marcus gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning porcelain white. The main highway was five miles south, but the county hospital was guarded by the very jurisdiction Trent’s family controlled. Taking her to the emergency room was walking straight into a cage.
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"Hold on, Clara," Marcus said, his voice dropping into that calm, immovable tone once more. "I know someone. An old clinic off the municipal grid. Just breathe through it. Look at me—breathe."
Before Clara could answer, a loud metallic impact rattled the truck's rear bumper. Marcus looked up at the mirror. The police cruiser hadn't fallen behind; it had just pitted them from the left rear quarter.
