“Get in, quick,” she muttered, opening the extended cab door.
We scrambled inside. It was a tight squeeze—seven of us packed into the front and back bench seats of a commercial truck, the smell of motor oil and old tobacco wrapping around us. Lucy placed Sam in my arms. “Hold him tight, Leo.”
She climbed into the driver’s seat, her hands shaking so badly she dropped the key on the floorboard twice.
“Come on, come on,” she prayed, her voice cracking. She finally slotted the key into the ignition and turned it.
The engine roared to life with a deafening, metallic cough that sounded like a gunshot in the silent alleyway. The headlights flashed on, cutting through the darkness, illuminating the brick wall in front of us.
Lucy threw the truck into reverse. “We’re going to make it. We’re going to—”
Suddenly, the entire alleyway was flooded with blinding, bright white light.
High-beam headlights erupted from the entrance of the alley, blocking our only exit route. The glare was so intense I had to shield my eyes. Through the windshield, the silhouette of a massive black SUV became visible, its engine idling with a sinister, low growl.
It wasn’t the social workers. It wasn’t the police.
The driver’s side door of the black SUV opened. A tall, heavy-set man stepped out into the blinding light. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. He held a thick manila envelope in one hand, and a crowbar in the other.
And from the passenger side of the SUV, Mom stepped out, pointing her finger directly at our truck, her face twisted in a look of sheer, cold malice.
“I told you, Rick,” Mom shouted over the roaring engines, her voice echoing off the brick walls. “She’s got the kids in there! Get the baby!”
Rick started walking toward our truck, raising the crowbar.
