Page 84 of Imprisoned

He nods, his face pale but determined. “Yeah. Thanks for... you know.”

I squeeze his good shoulder. “We stick together now.”

When we return to the main room, Axel has Gary backed against the wall, speaking in low, threatening tones. I catch fragments—“if you try anything”—before Axel notices my presence and steps back.

“Ready,” I announce, shouldering my backpack.

Gary leads us outside to an old Suburban with tinted windows. The morning air is crisp, birds chirping obliviously to the fugitives in their midst. Freedom feels so close yet terrifyingly fragile.

Axel insists on sitting up front with Gary while Tommy and I take the back seat. As we pull away from the cabin, I watch it disappear through the rear window—another piece of our past falling away.

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask as Gary navigates the dirt road back toward civilization.

“Private airstrip outside San Antonio,” he answers gruffly. “Got a pilot who doesn’t ask questions.”

I catch Axel’s eye in the side mirror. His face remains impassive, but I know he’s calculating every variable, ready for any threat. His hand rests on his thigh, inches from the gun tucked in his waistband.

The car jostles over uneven terrain before finally reaching smoother pavement. Gary turns onto a highway, merging with morning traffic. Signs for San Antonio appear intermittently—forty miles, thirty-five, thirty. Each mile marker brings us closer to a new life or capture.

I feel Gary’s suspicion before I see his face change. A subtle stiffening of his shoulders as he peers into the rearview mirror. My stomach drops.

“We’ve got company,” he mutters, accelerating suddenly.

Axel’s hand moves to his gun. “Who?”

“Police. Two cars, unmarked. They’ve been trailing us since we hit the main road.”

I twist in my seat, heart pounding as I spot the black sedans hanging back in traffic. “How did they find us?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Axel says, his voice eerily calm. “Gary, get us out of here.”

Gary veers sharply, cutting across two lanes to take an exit ramp. Horns blare behind us as the Suburban barrels down the off-ramp into an industrial warehouse area.

“They’re still on us,” Tommy says, his face pale as he watches through the rear window.

Gary takes another sharp turn, tires squealing. “I know these streets. We can lose them.”

We’re threading through a maze of loading docks and warehouses now, the Suburban bouncing violently over railroad tracks and potholes. My teeth clatter together, and my hands grip the seat as Gary takes another hairpin turn into a narrow alley.

“I’ve got a laptop if you know how to hack,” Gary nods toward a small laptop tucked under his seat. “Better put it to use now, kid.”

Tommy grabs it, fingers flying over the keyboard. “I need internet access.”

“Hotspot in the glove box,” Gary barks as we burst from the alley onto a main thoroughfare.

Sirens wail behind us now. They’re no longer hiding their pursuit.

“What are you doing?” I ask Tommy as he connects to the network.

“Accessing the city’s traffic management system,” he says, not looking up. “If I can trigger emergency protocols...”

The Suburban rockets through an intersection just as the light turns red. Behind us, the police cruisers halt as cross traffic surges forward.

“Nice,” Axel says, glancing back.

“That’s just the beginning,” Tommy replies, still typing furiously.

True to his word, as we race through the industrial district, traffic lights ahead turn green while those behind us go red. Digital road signs flash emergency alerts, diverting civilian traffic from our route.

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