Chapter 8 - The Flare Gun
The world turned into a chaotic blur of spinning lights and shattered glass.
The SUV violently careened off the highway and crashed down into the muddy embankment.
Airbags deployed with a deafening crack, filling the cabin with white powder and the smell of burning dust.
We slammed into a cluster of thick trees, the metal chassis groaning as it crumpled.
Everything stopped.
I lay in the passenger seat, my head ringing, my ribs aching from the seatbelt.
I looked down in a pure panic, but the baby was miraculously unharmed, shielded tightly in my arms.
He began to wail loudly, terrified by the sudden noise and impact.
I looked over at David, who was unconscious, his head resting against the steering wheel.
Outside, heavy footsteps splashed through the mud, approaching the wrecked car.
The armored truck had parked on the shoulder above us.
Marcus walked down the embankment, illuminated by the truck's headlights.
He wasn't at my house with my sister at all.
The video on the laptop had been pre-recorded to force us into a desperate rush.
He yanked the driver's side door open and dragged David's limp body out into the rain.
He kicked David brutally in the ribs, demanding to know where the baby was.
I huddled down in the footwell, hiding under the deflated airbag, trying to silence the baby's cries.
Marcus turned his attention to my side of the car, his knife glinting in the light.
I reached frantically into the open glovebox above me.
My hand brushed against a bright orange emergency road kit.
I ripped it open and felt the hard plastic grip of a maritime flare gun.
I pulled it out and cocked the heavy hammer back.
Marcus peered through the shattered passenger window, his evil grin widening as he spotted us.
He reached his hand inside to grab my coat.
I didn't aim at him.
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I looked past him, aiming directly at the ruptured fuel tank of his armored truck idling above us on the hill.
I pulled the trigger, sending a blinding, burning red projectile shooting into the darkness.
