Chapter 4 - The Ambush at Devil’s Creek
Through the Dark Woods, A Corrupt Network Closes In for the KillThe escape from the bank was swift and dangerous. Hank had maneuvered his personal old Chevy truck to the rear loading dock, shielding Ethan under a heavy canvas tarp in the truck bed, while Carla slipped into the passenger seat. They blew past the rear alleyway before the black SUVs across the street could even register the movement.
But by the time they reached the winding, unpaved roads leading to the abandoned timber mill at Devil’s Creek, the sky had turned a violent, bruised purple. A torrential Texas thunderstorm was brewing, fat drops of rain slamming against the windshield.
"The road's blocked ahead," Hank growled, slamming his hands against the steering wheel as the truck skidded to a halt.
A massive pine tree had been cut down, deliberately laid across the narrow muddy path.
"We walk from here," Carla said, grabbing the heavy coin jar—now holding the vital evidence and keys—and shoving it into a canvas backpack. "Ethan, stay close to me. Keep your head down."
The three of them slipped into the dense woods, the rain blinding them as they navigated the slippery, muddy terrain. The wind howled through the pines, masking the sound of their footsteps—but also masking the approach of anyone else.
Suddenly, a bright flash of lightning illuminated the forest, followed immediately by the deafening crack of thunder. In that split second of light, Carla saw a figure standing mere feet away from them, dressed in a black rain jacket, a silenced pistol raised directly at Hank’s chest.
"Drop the bag, Mrs. Reeves," a cold voice commanded over the roaring wind. It was the tall man from the bank.
Before Carla could react, Hank threw his massive frame forward, tackling the gunman into the mud. A muffled thwip sounded as the pistol fired into the air.
"Run!" Hank roared, grappling with the assassin in the dark mud. "Carla, take the kid and run to the mill!"
Carla grabbed Ethan’s hand, her sneakers slipping on the wet pine needles as she sprinted through the dark. Behind them, another set of heavy footsteps began to crash through the underbrush. They were being hunted.
They burst through the tree line into the clearing of the abandoned timber mill. The massive, rusting corrugated iron structure loomed over them like a ghost ship. The main sliding doors were cracked open, a dim, flickering yellow light leaking out from within.
Carla dragged Ethan inside, the heavy scent of sawdust, rust, and damp earth filling her nose. In the center of the vast, hollow warehouse, tied to a heavy wooden chair under a single hanging bulb, was Robert Carter. His face was bruised, his breathing shallow, but his eyes flared with terror as he saw his grandson.
"Ethan... Carla... no... you shouldn't have come," Robert gasped, his voice cracked and weak.
"Well, well. The welcoming committee has arrived."
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From the shadows behind Robert’s chair stepped Mayor Thomas Vance. He wasn't wearing his usual campaign smile. He held a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol, his tailored suit completely dry.
"I must admit, Carla," the Mayor sneered, tilting his head. "I underestimated a small-town bank manager. I thought you’d just process the foreclosure and look the other way like everyone else in this miserable town."
