Chapter 7 - The Safe House
The safe house was a dilapidated two-story Victorian building hidden at the end of a dead-end street in an industrial sector of Newark. Rusting shipping containers and abandoned auto body shops surrounded the property, illuminated only by the flickering yellow light of a single streetlamp.
Mark pulled the SUV into an alleyway two houses down, dousing the headlights.
"There's a black Mercedes sedan parked in the driveway," I whispered, pointing through the rain. "The engine is idling."
"That’s Lawson’s security guy," Rachel said, her voice shaking with fear. "His name is Vance. He’s armed."
Mark looked at the dashboard, his hands trembling violently. "We... we should call the police now. We have enough evidence."
"If we call the police, Vance sees the red lights coming down the avenue and shoots his way out with Kathleen and the baby," I said firmly, pulling my heavy brass torch light from the glove compartment. "We go in now, before that car leaves for the airport."
Lauren unlocked her seatbelt, reaching under her seat. She pulled out Mark’s heavy steel tire iron.
"Lauren," Mark gasped, staring at her. "What are you doing?!"
"I spent four years weeping in dark rooms because I believed my body was broken," Lauren said, looking at her husband with dark, lethal eyes. "I spent four years believing I was half a woman. I’m getting my son back, Mark. With or without you."
She opened the SUV door and stepped out into the pouring rain.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my brass torch light and followed my daughter into the storm.
We crept through the overgrown weeds along the side of the house, avoiding the patches of gravel near the porch. The ground-floor windows were covered with thick black curtains, but a thin strip of golden light leaked out from the kitchen door at the rear.
I peeked through the small glass pane of the back door.
Inside the kitchen, sitting on a wooden chair near a packed suitcase, was Kathleen Reid. Her six-month pregnancy bump was clearly visible beneath her wet sweater.
Standing across from her was a tall man in a dark suit—Dr. Lawson himself.
He was holding a silver metallic briefcase and a clear medical vial, preparing a syringe on the kitchen counter.
"This will keep you sedated during the six-hour flight to Rio, Kathleen," Lawson’s voice drifted through the door frame. "Once you arrive at the private clinic in South America, the medical team will oversee the remainder of your trimester until the scheduled C-section."
"What about my sister?" Kathleen asked, sounding anxious. "Rachel knows too much."
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"Vance will take care of Rachel as soon as our plane clears US airspace," Lawson said coldly, tapping the syringe to clear air bubbles. "Now hold still."
Before Lawson could press the needle into Kathleen’s arm, Lauren kicked the back door with all the strength in her body.
