Chapter 151

Chapter 151
The rain had turned heavy, the drops fat and cold, drumming against the hood of Izzy’s borrowed coat. The forest swallowed everything—the faint glow of the cabin, the sound of the engine idling, even the soft shuffle of Beck’s boots in the mud ahead. Every breath came shallow, quick, each one a reminder that she was running because if she stopped, she might never move again.

Beck’s hand clamped around hers, pulling her over a root. The duffel swung from his shoulder, bumping against his side. He didn’t speak, not yet. He was all motion, all purpose—his focus locked on some path only he seemed able to see through the black pines.

“Beck,” she whispered.

“Keep going.”

The wind cut through the trees, a low whistle that felt like voices. Izzy’s legs burned. The baby inside her—a thought she’d tried to bury under panic—felt impossibly heavy now, a secret weight pressing low in her belly. She couldn’t afford to fall. She couldn’t afford to slow down.

Behind them, a door slammed. Then the echo of shouting.

“Where is she?”

Dick’s voice. Faint, but there. A ghost chasing her into the dark.

Beck stopped just long enough to meet her eyes. “Don’t look back,” he murmured. “Ever.”

She nodded, though her throat felt tight, her breath catching. Her boots sank in the mud as they turned down a deer trail barely visible under the rain.

Branches clawed at her sleeves, cold needles slicing across her skin. The smell of wet earth filled her nose—petrichor and pine sap and fear. She wanted to ask how far, how long, where they were going—but Beck’s silence told her that stopping to ask would cost too much time.

Another shout. Closer this time. “Find her!”

Then a sharp crack split the air.

Gunfire.

Izzy flinched so hard she nearly lost her footing. Beck’s grip tightened, pulling her upright again before she could fall. He didn’t speak—just urged her faster. The rain covered everything now, turning the forest floor into slick clay that tried to eat her boots.

Her mind splintered into fragments of memory—the church, Father Nolan’s gentle eyes, Joan’s hands covered in flour, the sound of gunshots there too. It’s happening again, she thought. It never ends.

She stumbled into Beck’s back when he stopped suddenly. He held up a hand—listening.

Another sound filtered through the storm: engines, distant but approaching, tires crunching gravel far down the main road. More than one. They’d brought backup.

Beck leaned close enough for her to hear him over the rain. “We cut east. The creek should be a half mile out. We follow it down to the bridge. If we can get to the truck, we’re gone.”

She wanted to ask what if they couldn’t—but she bit her tongue. The fear in her stomach was a live thing, clawing up her ribs. If she spoke, she might start screaming.

They moved again, slower now, crouching under low branches. The sound of the creek grew louder—a soft rush that promised distance from the shouting behind them.

Lightning flashed, bleaching the trees white for half a second. Beck’s outline leapt against the dark, his face grim, wet hair plastered to his forehead. Then thunder followed, rolling deep enough to shake the ground.

The next few minutes blurred together: mud, rain, cold air scraping her lungs raw. She lost count of how many times Beck had to grab her elbow to keep her upright. Her arms ached from clutching the coat around her. The forest felt endless, a tangle of black trunks and silver water and shadows that moved when they shouldn’t.

Then, finally, the creek. It cut through the trees like a vein, swollen and wild from the storm.

Beck crouched, scanning the other side. “We follow it south,” he said, voice low. “Stay in the water when you can. It’ll hide our tracks.”

Izzy nodded, though her body protested. She stepped into the shallows, the cold biting her ankles. Pebbles shifted under her feet. The current tugged hard, making balance a battle.

“Easy,” Beck said. His hand brushed her back as he steadied her. “You’re doing great.”

A humorless laugh escaped her. “Define great.”

He almost smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Alive counts.”

The thunder cracked again, masking another gunshot. Izzy froze, but Beck shook his head. “Too far,” he said. “They’re shooting blind.”

Still, the sound made her heart hammer harder.

They followed the creek for what felt like hours. The rain eased to a steady drizzle, though mist still curled around the trees. Izzy’s body felt hollowed out, her muscles trembling from cold and adrenaline. The world had shrunk to two things: Beck’s hand guiding her forward, and the sound of running water.

When the first sliver of dawn touched the horizon, Beck finally stopped. They crouched behind a boulder near the bridge—a narrow, rusted structure that crossed over the creek and met the old highway. His breath came out in white clouds.

“That’s the road,” he said quietly. “Truck’s just beyond that ridge.”

Izzy stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. “Do you think they’re still—”

Before she could finish, a voice echoed through the woods. “Beck!”

Her blood froze.

It wasn’t shouted in rage. It was calm. Controlled. That made it worse.

Beck’s jaw tightened. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

He crept up the ridge, rifle ready, just high enough to look over. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he exhaled sharply. “They found the truck.”

Izzy’s knees went weak. “What do we do?”

He turned to her, eyes hard. “We find another one.”

“But—”

“I’ll get us out, Izzy,” he said. “I swear it.”

Something in his voice steadied her. He reached out, brushed a wet strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered a second longer than they should have. “You trust me?”

Her breath trembled. “Yes.”

“Then run when I say run.”

He glanced up again, scanning the ridge, and then motioned her toward the creek bed. They crouched low, moving parallel to the road. The forest thinned ahead—more open, but also more dangerous.

Beck stopped suddenly. Voices. Two men. Flashlights cutting faint beams through the trees.

Izzy held her breath. Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. Beck raised one finger—wait.

The men moved closer, laughing faintly, talking about how cold it was. One of them muttered something about Dane and “his runaway girl.” Izzy’s stomach twisted.

When they finally passed, Beck grabbed her hand. “Now.”

They ran.

Branches whipped her face, roots snatched at her boots. Every breath burned. Somewhere behind them, a voice shouted, “There! There!”

Gunfire cracked again—one, then two shots—and Beck shoved her down behind a fallen tree. Bark splintered overhead. Izzy bit her lip to keep from crying out.

Beck looked at her, his face pale and wet, eyes fierce. “We keep going. We’re close.”

“Beck—”

“No stopping. Not now.”

She nodded, and when he stood, she followed.

The road came into view just as the sun began to rise—a faint wash of pink bleeding through the clouds. Beck grabbed her hand, pulling her the last stretch. Every muscle screamed, every breath was fire, but she didn’t dare look back.

When they finally hit the asphalt, Beck turned them north, running along the shoulder until they reached a narrow pull-off. An old pickup sat there, keys still in the ignition, a thermos left on the seat. Beck didn’t hesitate.

“Get in.”

Izzy stumbled into the passenger seat as Beck climbed behind the wheel. The engine groaned, then caught. Tires spun mud before gripping the road.

As they pulled away, Izzy turned once to look through the rear window. The trees blurred by, a wall of dark shapes and mist. Somewhere back there, behind the pines, she thought she saw movement—men with flashlights, rain glinting off metal.

Then Beck pressed harder on the gas, and they were gone.