Chapter 6 - The Chase on River Road
The rain had started again, turning the dark asphalt of River Road into a slick, glistening ribbon that mirrored the amber glare of overhead sodium lights.
Jordan’s sedan bounced violently as he took a sharp turn past the abandoned meat-packing plant, his tires throwing up plumes of muddy water against the chain-link fence. Ahead of him, cutting through the heavy mist, tail-lights flashed red in the darkness.
A standard-issue white Department of Corrections transport van—plates matching DOC-7142—was barreling down the deserted industrial strip at eighty miles an hour.
Jordan slammed his foot down on the accelerator, his engine screaming in protest as the speedometer needle crept past ninety.
Keep them in sight, he told himself, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Just keep them in sight until the state troopers intercept.
Through the rear windshield of the van, Jordan could see a blurred silhouette pressed against the wire-mesh window of the prisoner partition.
It was Mara.
She had her face pressed against the glass, her mouth moving frantically as if shouting words he couldn't hear over the roar of his engine.
Ahead of them, the road curved sharply toward the abandoned municipal rendering plant—the same sprawling industrial complex Jordan had spotted on the GIS map earlier that afternoon. A rusted iron gate stood half-open across the gravel entrance, flanked by thick concrete pillars and overgrown pine trees.
The transport van didn't brake. It swerved violently to the left, smashing through the chain-link perimeter fence with a screech of tearing metal, and plunged into the muddy gravel courtyard behind the main processing building.
Jordan didn't hesitate. He wrenched his steering wheel hard, slid his sedan through the broken gate, and cut his headlights, plunging his car into the deep shadow of an rusted loading dock just fifty yards behind the van.
He killed the engine.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of his cooling exhaust pipe and the steady hiss of the falling rain.
Through the cracked windshield, Jordan watched the van doors swing open.
Officer Dale Mercer hopped down from the driver’s seat, pulling his heavy tactical jacket tight against the wind. He didn't look like a corrections officer anymore; he moved with the cold, practiced efficiency of a mercenary securing a drop zone.
He walked around to the side cargo doors, unlocked them with a heavy brass key, and pulled them wide.
“Get out,” Mercer barked, his voice carrying clearly across the wet gravel.
Mara stumbled backward out of the van, her orange jumpsuit soaked, her hands still cuffed behind her back with plastic zip-ties. She fell hard against the muddy ground, gasping for breath as another contraction seized her abdomen.
“Please,” Mara sobbed, curling into a ball in the mud. “My baby... I think my water just broke.”
Mercer didn't look down at her with pity. He looked down at his watch, tapping the screen impatiently.
“You should have kept your mouth shut at the hospital, inmate,” Mercer said coldly, reaching down to grab her by the collar of her jumpsuit. “If you hadn't started screaming about phone calls, we would have dropped you off at the women’s facility downtown by midnight and nobody would have asked questions.”
“Where is Haines?” Mara choked out, tears mixing with the mud on her face.
“Haines is smart enough to keep her mouth shut and collect her paycheck,” Mercer snapped, hauling her up to her feet by her arms. “Now move. The transfer vehicle from Apex Holdings is pulling around the back side of the loading dock.”
Jordan, crouched behind the loading dock just twenty feet away, reached into his jacket pocket.
His fingers closed around his smartphone.
He didn't call 911 this time. He hit redial on his recent calls list—straight to Detective Lena Brooks at the city precinct, whose direct number he had memorized during a murder trial two years ago.
The line connected on the second ring.
“Brooks,” a sharp voice answered instantly.
“Lena, it’s Jordan,” he whispered into the phone, keeping his voice low as he inched closer to the corner of the concrete platform. “I’m at the old municipal rendering plant on River Road. Mercer has Mara. They’re transferring her to a private corporate van right now. Send every available unit immediately.”
“Hold your position, Jordan,” Brooks’s voice crackled through the speaker, laced with absolute urgency. “State troopers are three minutes out. Do not engage him—he’s armed.”
Jordan peeked around the corner of the loading dock.
A sleek, black SUV with tinted windows and no license plates was idling near the rear incinerator doors of the plant. Two men in dark suits had stepped out from the passenger side, walking toward Mercer and Mara with heavy black duffel bags swinging at their sides.
This wasn't just a prison guard gone rogue.
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This was a human trafficking and illicit adoption pipeline operating inside the state correctional system, targeting vulnerable, low-income inmates whose babies could be quietly funneled through private, unregulated adoption brokers before birth certificates were ever filed.
And Mara Ellison was scheduled to be the next delivery.
