Chapter 7 - The Coastal Highway Wreck
The coastal highway was a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered glass. Wisps of grey smoke curled upward from the engine block of the black Ford transit van, which now rested at a precarious forty-five-degree angle against the jagged concrete retaining wall. The unrelenting rain continued to lash the scene, washing a thick mixture of engine oil and seawater across the asphalt.
Federal Marshal Thomas Vance—no relation to Arthur, though sharing the same ruthless ambition—stepped out of the lead armored SUV, his heavy combat boots crunching over debris. He pulled his collar up against the wind, his sharp eyes scanning the interior of the wrecked van.
The rear doors hung open, swinging wildly on bent hinges. Inside, the burlap sack lay empty, torn wide open by frantic claws.
"Sir, we found footprints leading toward the cliff edge," a tactical agent reported, jogging up through the rain and holding out a small, wet piece of tattered gray fabric. "It looks like someone got to the child before our tactical team could secure the perimeter."
Thomas took the scrap of cloth, rubbing the rough cotton between his gloved fingers. His expression remained unreadable, cold as the ocean crashing against the rocks a hundred feet below.
"Who?" Thomas demanded, his voice carrying effortlessly over the sound of the surf.
"Unknown, Agent Vance. But based on the tire treads left on the shoulder, it wasn't local police. It was a private transport. Heavy armor, custom suspension. Corporate recovery unit."
Thomas let out a slow, calculated breath, watching the vapor dissolve into the cold night air. Arthur was moving faster than anticipated. The old man must have realized his inner circle had been compromised the moment the federal subpoena was issued.
"Track them," Thomas ordered sharply. "Find out which private airstrip has an outbound flight plan filed for the next hour. Arthur thinks he can hide his corporate sins behind offshore accounts and secret laboratories, but this boy is federal evidence. If Arthur gets his hands on him first, the entire genome project goes dark permanently."
As the tactical team scrambled back toward their vehicles, a sudden, sharp bark echoed from the rocky brush just beyond the guardrail.
Thomas froze, holding up a hand to halt his men. He stepped slowly toward the edge of the cliff, shining his heavy tactical flashlight down into the dense thicket of sea-grape and jagged boulders.
There, huddled beneath the twisted roots of a dead pine tree, was a small brown puppy. It was shivering violently, its fur matted with mud and rain. In its mouth, the puppy gripped the torn hem of a tiny, bloodstained shirt.
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Thomas knelt beside the animal, extending a cautious hand. The puppy didn't snarl or bite; instead, its big, expressive eyes locked onto the federal agent with an eerie, human-like intelligence, as if waiting for him to make his move.
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