Chapter 5 - The Chase in the FogThe cold San Francisco fog hit my face like a wall of ice as I sprinted down the sweeping brick driveway of the estate. Behind me, the heavy front door flew open, and Christopher’s furious roar cut through the night air.
“Sabrina! Stop right there!”
Footsteps crunched violently on the gravel behind me.
I didn't look back. I knew the layout of Pacific Heights better than they realized; behind the row of historic mansions ran a steep, narrow public pedestrian stairway carved into the cliffside, dropping all the way down toward the Marina Boulevard waterfront. If I could reach the stairway before they cut me off with one of their vehicles, I could lose them in the dense maze of coastal fog.
My bare feet slapped painfully against the cold asphalt as I veered sharply off the driveway and dove into the dark, overgrown shrubbery lining the side of the property.
“She’s heading for the cliffside path!” Samuel shouted from somewhere near the front gates. The deep, aggressive roar of a Mercedes engine revving to life echoed from the estate’s side garage.
Branches whipped against my face and tore at my clothes as I pushed through the thick rhododendron bushes, breaking out onto the top landing of the concrete public stairs.
Below me, the steps vanished into a thick, milky blanket of San Francisco fog.
I didn't hesitate. I threw myself down the steps, my hand sliding along the cold damp iron railing to keep my balance as I took three steps at a time.
Above me on the street level, tires squealed violently as Christopher’s Mercedes slammed to a halt near the top of the pedestrian path. Car doors slammed open, and the sharp beam of a high-powered tactical flashlight cut through the fog, sweeping frantically back and forth across the staircase.
“She went down the stairs! Cut her off at the lower boulevard intersection!” Christopher’s voice echoed down the concrete chute, vibrating with furious panic.
My lungs burned as if I were inhaling fire. My feet throbbed from the cold concrete, and my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Ten minutes until 10:00 PM.
If they intercepted me before I reached the main thoroughfare where civilian witnesses and public security cameras were active, they would drag me back to that basement guest room, and this time, there would be no escape.
I hit the bottom of the long stone staircase, stumbling hard onto the damp pavement of Marina Boulevard. The cold ocean wind rushed up from the bay, carrying the sharp scent of salt water and diesel fumes.
Across the wide four-lane road, the bright neon lights of an all-night diner flickered through the mist.
I stepped off the curb, looking left and right for traffic, when a sleek black SUV careened around the corner at high speed, its high-beam headlights blinding me instantly.
The vehicle slammed on its brakes, tires screeching against the wet asphalt, stopping dead just three feet from where I stood frozen in the middle of the street.
The passenger door flew open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark trench coat stepped out into the glare.
My breath caught in my throat. I braced myself, expecting Christopher or Samuel to emerge from the vehicle.
Instead, a calm, commanding voice cut through the wind.
May you like
“Sabrina? Good lord, what happened to you?”
I blinked against the glaring headlights, focusing my eyes. Standing before me was Marcus Vance—the federal prosecutor, my former law school classmate, and the exact man the dead man’s switch was programmed to contact in less than five minutes.
