Chapter 13 - The Coldest Blow
"David, don't!" Margaret screamed, lunging forward with the crowbar.
She swung with everything she had, an aging mother fighting for the life of her grandchild. The iron bar struck David across the forearm with a sickening thud, knocking the tire iron from his grip into the mud. David grunted in pain, stumbling back, but he was younger, stronger, and driven by pure desperation.
He recovered instantly, lunging forward and tackling Margaret into the shallow swamp water. They crashed into the muck, Margaret's head striking a submerged log, sending bursts of white pain exploding across her vision. David pinned her down, his heavy hands closing around her throat, pressing her head into the foul-smelling water.
"Why couldn't you just stay out of it?!" David snarled, his face inches from hers, veins bulging in his neck. "Why do you always protect everyone except me?!"
Margaret gagged, her hands clawing desperately at his wrists, her vision darkening as the muddy water crept over her nose and mouth. She was drowning at the hands of her firstborn son, the baby she had cradled in her arms in the very hospital down the valley forty years ago.
Suddenly, a heavy rock smashed against the side of David's skull.
David cried out, his grip slipping from Margaret's throat as he fell sideways into the reeds. Standing over him, her small chest heaving, was Lily. She held a jagged river stone in both hands, her teeth bared in primal defense of her grandmother.
Margaret gasped, rolling over and coughing up mouthfuls of black water, dragging air back into her burning lungs. She reached out, grabbing the iron crowbar from the mud beside her. David was already pushing himself back up, blood streaming down his temple, his eyes locked onto his six-year-old daughter with murderous intent.
"You little brat—" he snarled, raising his fist.
Margaret didn't hesitate. She didn't think of him as her son, nor as the boy who used to catch fireflies in her garden. She saw only a predator threatening her blood. She drove the blunt end of the crowbar directly into David's knee with a sickening crunch of shattered cartilage.
David shrieked, collapsing into the mud, clutching his shattered leg in agony.
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Before Margaret could pull Lily away, the harsh beam of two powerful flashlights cut through the reeds from the north. "Police! Don't move!" a voice bellowed.
Through the tall grass emerged two men in tactical gear, their rifles raised. But they weren't Evans' deputies. Stenciled in bright yellow letters across their dark vests was the acronym: FBI.
