Chapter 3 - The Ghost Protocol
Word Count: ~3,500 words
Daniel didn't panic. Panic was a luxury for civilian life, and civilian life had just ended.
He bound Tom tightly with heavy-duty ratchet straps from the tractor shed, gagging him with duct tape. He then tended to Max. The bullet had only sliced the skin of the dog's shoulder—painful, but not deep enough to sever muscle or major blood vessels. Daniel quickly patched it with veterinary glue and a pressure bandage from his tactical medical kit.
"Good boy," Daniel muttered, pressing his forehead against the dog's wet nose. "We have to move."
He grabbed the Pelican case, throwing the ledger and the vial into a waterproof tactical backpack, along with his Sig Sauer, extra magazines, a tactical knife, and William’s journals. He threw the backpack into the passenger seat of his 2007 Ford F-150. Max climbed into the footwell, his eyes alert despite the pain.
As Daniel started the engine, the headlights of three black, unmarked SUVs appeared at the edge of the long, gravel driveway, turning off the highway. They were driving without headlights, using night-vision technology to sweep the property.
"Too late," Daniel hissed.
Instead of turning down the driveway toward the oncoming vehicles, Daniel slammed the truck into reverse, crashing through the wooden fence of the backyard. The heavy truck roared as he shifted into drive, tearing directly through the tall, golden wheat fields. The dry stalks whipped against the windshield like a storm of arrows.
Behind him, the SUVs spotted his movement. High-intensity LED spotlights cut through the darkness, bathing the fields in blinding white light.
Pop-pop-pop-pop!
The sound of automatic gunfire echoed across the valley. Bullets punched through the tailgate of Daniel's truck, shattering the rear window. Shards of glass rained down onto the dashboard. Max whimpered, tucking himself tighter into the footwell.
"Hang on, Max!" Daniel yelled.
He knew the geography of the farm perfectly now—he had spent months mapping every ditch, every rock, and every sinkhole. The men pursuing him did not.
Daniel steered the truck toward the dry creek bed at the eastern edge of the property. It was a steep drop, nearly impossible for a standard vehicle to navigate without rolling. But the Ford had a modified off-road suspension he had spent his last savings restoring.
He hit the edge of the creek at forty miles per hour.
The truck launched into the air, suspended for a terrifying second over the black void before slamming violently into the muddy bottom of the creek bed. The tires gripped the wet gravel. Daniel cranked the wheel, killing his own headlights, and roared down the winding, natural trench of the creek, hidden from the spotlights above by the high dirt banks and thick overhanging trees.
Behind him, he heard the loud, grinding crunch of one of the pursuing SUVs attempting the jump and failing, rolling violently down the bank in a shower of sparks and metal.
May you like
Daniel didn’t look back. He drove through the darkness, guided only by the moonlight filtering through the canopy, escaping into the vast, empty expanse of the Kansas night. But he knew he couldn't run forever. The transceiver in his bag was still pinging. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
He opened the glove compartment, pulled out William’s journal, and flipped to the very back page. Hidden beneath a layer of false leather on the inside cover was a phone number and a single name: SOPHIA.
