Part 2: The Ghost in the Woods
Chief Harrison knocked on the front door.
Three slow, polite taps.
It was a terrifying sound, a mockery of the friendship he had pretended to share with her for a decade.
"Maryanne?" Harrison called out, his voice smooth and artificially warm.
"It's Chief Harrison. We got a call about a dangerous stray dog in your yard. I want to make sure you're safe."
Maryanne stood in the center of the kitchen, frozen.
Titan stood between her and the hallway, his growl low and vibrating with murderous intent.
She knew Harrison was not there to rescue her.
He was there to finish the job he started ten years ago.
He was there to erase the last person who could expose his empire.
"Maryanne, open the door," Harrison's voice dropped, losing its warmth. "Or we will breach it."
Maryanne didn't answer.
She moved with a sudden, silent speed she hadn't used in years.
She grabbed the USB drive and shoved it deep into her pocket.
She scooped up the laundry basket containing the whimpering puppy.
She looked at Titan, pointing toward the basement door.
"Down," she whispered sharply.
Titan instantly obeyed, abandoning the front door and following her down the wooden stairs into the dark basement.
Above them, the front door splintered with a deafening crash as a battering ram smashed through the deadbolt.
Heavy combat boots pounded across her living room floor.
"Clear the rooms!" Harrison shouted. "Find the drive! And kill the dog."
Maryanne reached the back wall of the basement, ignoring the chaos destroying her home.
Frank had been a paranoid man during his last few months alive.
He had spent weeks building a heavy, reinforced storm shelter behind the boiler.
But he had never told anyone that the shelter connected to an old, abandoned drainage pipe leading directly into the pine woods.
Maryanne pushed the heavy metal shelving unit aside, revealing the rusted steel door.
She spun the locking wheel, the hinges screaming in protest as it opened.
"She's in the basement!" a voice yelled from the top of the stairs.
Gunfire erupted, the bullets ripping through the wooden steps and shattering the overhead lightbulbs.
Maryanne threw the basket into the tunnel, grabbed Titan by his heavy leather collar, and dove into the darkness.
She slammed the steel door shut and threw the heavy iron deadbolt just as bodies slammed against the other side.
Muffled shouts and the heavy thud of bullets hitting the steel echoed behind her.
But the door was built to withstand a tornado.
It would hold long enough.
Maryanne crawled through the damp, narrow concrete pipe, the smell of wet earth and rust filling her lungs.
Titan crawled beside her, his body pressing against hers, offering silent, unwavering protection.
Ten minutes later, they emerged from the grate, a quarter-mile deep into the dense Georgia pine woods.
The night air was freezing, and the rain had started again, washing away their scent.
Maryanne sat in the mud, clutching the puppy to her chest, trying to catch her breath.
She looked back toward her property.
Her small white house, the home where she had raised her children and loved her husband, was ablaze.
Harrison had set it on fire to cover up the crime scene.
He was going to frame her death as a tragic house fire.
Maryanne watched the orange flames lick the sky, but she did not cry.
Her grief had been burned away, replaced by an absolute, freezing rage.
She was not going to run anymore.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, dialing a number she had memorized ten years ago.
It was the direct line to Special Agent Vance of the FBI's Internal Corruption Task Force.
Frank had given her the number the night before he died, telling her to only use it if he went missing.
The line rang twice before a deep voice answered.
"Vance."
"This is Maryanne Whitaker," she said, her voice completely devoid of fear. "Frank Whitaker's widow."
There was a long silence on the line.
"Maryanne," Vance said, his tone instantly shifting to high alert. "I've been waiting ten years for this call."
"Harrison killed Frank," Maryanne stated coldly. "He killed Detective Thorne tonight. And he just burned my house down."
"Where are you?" Vance demanded. "I am deploying a tactical team right now."
"I have the evidence," Maryanne continued, ignoring his question. "I am at the old lumber mill on County Road 9."
"Do not engage them, Maryanne," Vance pleaded. "Harrison has a private army. Hide."
"I’m not hiding," Maryanne replied.
She looked down at Titan, who was staring into the dark woods, his ears pinned back, ready for war.
"I’m going to hold them here."
She hung up the phone and threw it into the mud.
She pulled Frank’s old service revolver from her waistband, the heavy steel cold against her palm.
She checked the cylinder.
Six rounds.
"Come on, Titan," she whispered.
May you like
The dog fell into step beside her.
The widow and the ghost dog vanished into the trees, moving toward the abandoned mill to prepare a slaughter.
