Chapter 8 - The Detour into the Woods
Agent Miller wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, sending the heavy SUV careening off the paved highway and onto a narrow, unpaved logging road carved deep into the dense pine forest. The vehicle bounced violently over exposed tree roots and deep mud puddles, causing Toby and Marcus to yelp in alarm as they tumbled against each other in the back seat.
"What are you doing?!" Emily shouted, grabbing the dashboard to steady herself while clutching the old brown suitcase tightly against her chest. "She said we have to meet them at the quarry in forty-endifive minutes! Why are we heading into the woods?"
"Because if we drive straight to the quarry like obedient little sheep, Vance's private security will track our GPS signature right to us," Miller replied coolly, shifting gears with expert precision as the tires spun in the mud. "They’ve got drones, Emily. You think a billionaire like Richard Vance lets his estate documents walk out the front door without an active tracker somewhere in the mix?"
Emily froze. She looked down at the old brown leather suitcase in her lap. "A tracker? You think there's a tracker in this bag?"
"I'd bet my life on it," Miller said. He pulled the SUV to a stop beneath the thick canopy of ancient pine trees, cutting the engine and plunging the interior into a sudden, eerie silence broken only by the patter of light rain beginning to filter through the branches above.
"Stay here," Miller instructed, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Lock the doors from the inside. If anyone else approaches this vehicle, you don't open it for God Himself unless they give you the counter-sign."
"What's the counter-sign?" Emily asked.
"The sky is falling," Miller said grimly before stepping out into the damp forest air and pulling the door shut behind him.
The four boys watched through the rain-streaked windows as Miller walked around to the back of the SUV, pulled open the rear hatch, and began rummaging through a heavy tactical duffel bag.
"Is that man a bad guy, Miss Emily?" six-year-old Julian asked, his voice trembling as he rubbed his tired eyes.
"No, Julian. He's helping us," Emily comforted him, though her own heart was hammering against her ribs. She watched Miller pull a small, handheld electronic device from the duffel bag—a frequency scanner that began emitting a rapid, high-pitched clicking sound as he moved it closer to the rear bumper of the vehicle, and then toward the brown suitcase on Emily's lap.
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The clicking turned into a continuous, piercing beep. Miller turned around, locked eyes with Emily through the glass, and held up a tiny, coin-sized magnetic GPS transmitter ripped straight from the lining of the suitcase's base.
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