Chapter 7 – Flight Through the Thicket

 The sound came again—closer this time.

A sharp crack, followed by the unmistakable rustle of brush being pushed aside.

Maya’s eyes darted toward the trees. “That’s not a deer.”

Ronny didn’t reply. His hand tightened around the box, still damp with decades of soil. It was heavier than it looked—weighted not just with the past, but with something urgent, something dangerous.

They didn’t wait to find out who—or what—was coming.

“Go!” Ronny hissed.

Maya slung her pack across her shoulder and took off down the narrow path they’d come in on. Ronny followed close behind, the crate pressed to his chest. Brambles clawed at his arms, and low-hanging branches smacked him in the face, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Behind them, another sound—a footfall, fast and deliberate—punched through the stillness.

They weren’t alone.

“Faster!” Maya called over her shoulder.

The path narrowed near the bend in the creek, where the bank sloped down and the trail turned slick with mud. Ronny nearly lost his footing but caught himself against a tree.

A voice rang out through the trees. Male. Close.

“You’re not supposed to be here!”

Ronny didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t the same voice from the phone. This one was louder. Angrier.

Maya didn’t slow down. She veered off the main trail, cutting left through a narrow gap between two thorny shrubs. Ronny followed, ducking low, thorns scratching his arms and snagging his sleeves. The woods grew thicker here—untouched and wild.

“There!” Maya shouted, pointing.

The old metal gate came into view. Just beyond it, the truck.

Ronny surged forward, lungs burning. He vaulted the gate with a grunt, landed hard, and scrambled toward the driver’s side. Maya was already yanking open the passenger door.

The moment Ronny threw the truck into reverse, a figure burst out of the treeline—dark jacket, ball cap pulled low, face obscured.

Too late.

Gravel flew as the tires spun, caught, and the truck lurched backward. The figure stumbled toward them, but the distance was growing fast.

“Don’t come back here!” the man shouted. “You hear me?”

Ronny didn’t answer. He jammed the truck into drive, and they tore down the gravel road, bumping and rattling as low branches scraped across the windshield like fingernails.

Neither of them spoke for a full minute.

Finally, Maya exhaled. “That wasn’t random. He was watching us.”

Ronny nodded, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “He knew exactly where to find us. Which means—”

“He’s after the same thing we are,” Maya finished.

They didn’t slow down until they reached the county blacktop. Ronny pulled over into the gravel shoulder, turned off the engine, and sat in the silence.

The box rested on Maya’s lap, dirt still clinging to its edges.

She reached into her bag, pulled out a cloth, and gently unwrapped the oilskin bundle inside.

What they saw made them both lean closer.

Inside the folds were three items:

• A black leather journal, the initials M.E.D. embossed faintly on the cover.
• A faded photograph of a group of men standing in front of a barn—two of them holding rifles.
• And a yellowed piece of parchment paper, sealed with wax, bearing only two words:

“For the truth.”

Maya looked up. “Ronny... I think we just inherited someone’s unfinished mission.”

Ronny stared down at the box, heart pounding.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about retirement or regrets or how quiet the house had become. He was thinking about purpose.

And the fact that someone—maybe Margie E. Dalton herself—had left this for him to find.