Chapter 11 - The Transfer Convoy
At 04:30 AM, an armored state corrections transport van backed up to the sally port of the county jail.
Marcus Vance sat on a metal bench inside the holding cell, his wrists and ankles bound in heavy transport chains. A split lip was crusted with dried blood, and three of his ribs were cracked from Graves’s assault, but he was alive. Vance hadn't been able to execute him in the cell after all; two junior corrections officers had responded to the alarm before Graves could finish the job, forcing Vance to stick to the official schedule: transfer to the maximum-security state facility where an ""inmate altercation"" was already arranged.
Deputy Chief Vance entered the holding area, his uniform immaculate, though his eyes carried the wild, frantic edge of a cornered predator. He leaned against the bars, staring at Marcus.
""Your friend Miller died in a ditch tonight, Marcus,"" Vance whispered smoothly. ""A tragic single-vehicle rollover. Burned beyond recognition.""
Marcus’s head snapped up. The chains rattled violently as his fists clenched against his thighs. ""Where is my son, Vance? Where is Liam?""
""Lost in the woods, I imagine,"" Vance said with a cold, hollow smile. ""Freezing temperatures out there. Hypothermia takes a four-year-old in less than an hour. A tragic consequence of your selfish escape attempt.""
Marcus lunged upward, the transport chain snapping taut against the floor ring with an explosive clang. ""I will tear your throat out with my teeth, Vance! I swear to God, if you touched him—""
""Save your breath for the state yard,"" Vance sneered, stepping back as two state deputies stepped forward with stun batons. ""Move the prisoner. Convoy rolls out now.""
As they dragged Marcus through the steel corridor toward the armored van, Marcus kept his head high, scanning the rain-soaked loading dock. He looked for a tiny face, a scrap of camouflage cloth, anything. There was nothing. Just exhaust fumes, cold rain, and the red flashing lights of four patrol escort cruisers.
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They shoved Marcus into the iron cage of the van, slamming the double doors shut. The heavy deadbolts clunked into place, plunging him into absolute blackness.
The engine rumbled, and the convoy rolled out into the morning fog, heading toward Highway 9.
