My neighbor’s son came to my window at midnight and said, “You need to see my dad’s shed.”

Smart thinking from a twelve-year-old in crisis. We moved toward the door, and Karen held up a hand. “Wait. Let me check if it’s clear.”

She stepped out of the shed, and I heard her footsteps moving toward the garage. Seconds ticked by, and my heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Then she was back, gesturing urgently. “Now. He’s still in the garage, but he could come out any second. Go!”

We ran across the backyard toward the house, Jessica between Dylan and me, supporting her weight. Karen met us at the back door with her car keys and her own jacket, which she draped over Jessica’s shoulders.

“The police station on Maple Street. Fifteen minutes’ straight drive. Don’t stop for anything.”

She pressed the keys into my hand and looked at Dylan with devastating sadness. “I love you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t braver sooner.”

Dylan’s face crumpled, and he hugged her briefly before pulling away. “You need to come with us. If we leave you here with him and he realizes what you did, he’ll hurt you.”

Karen shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’ll tell him I tried to stop you but you overpowered me. He’ll believe that because he thinks I’m weak. Now go, before he comes inside.”

We went through the house to the garage where Karen’s sedan was parked, and I helped Jessica into the back seat while Dylan jumped in front with his backpack clutched against his chest.

The garage door opener was clipped to the visor, and I hit it, watching the door roll up with agonizing slowness. The engine started on the first try, and I backed out of the garage, tires squealing slightly on the smooth concrete.

I was halfway down the driveway when Raymond appeared in the doorway from the house to the garage, his face contorted with rage, and he ran toward the car. I floored the accelerator, and the sedan shot backward into the street.

Raymond reached the end of the driveway just as I threw the car into drive and punched the gas. He slammed his fist on the trunk as we pulled away, and I saw him in the rearview mirror running back toward the house, probably going for his truck.

Dylan said, his voice high with panic, “He’s coming after us.” “He knows these streets better than you do, and his truck is faster than mom’s car.”

I took the next turn at dangerous speed, tires protesting, and headed toward the main road that would take us downtown. Jessica was crying in the back seat—great gasping sobs of relief and terror mixed together.

I told her, trying to sound more confident than I felt, “You’re safe now.” “We’re going straight to the police, and they’ll protect you.”

The streets were empty at this hour, and I pushed the car as fast as I dared, running red lights at intersections after checking for cross traffic. Behind us, headlights appeared, coming fast, and I recognized the profile of Raymond’s truck.

Dylan reported, twisting in his seat to look, “He’s behind us.” “Maybe five hundred feet back.”

I took another turn, this time onto a residential street, hoping to lose him in the maze of neighborhoods, but he stayed right with us.

The police station was still ten minutes away at normal speed, maybe seven if I kept pushing it, but Raymond was gaining. His truck had more power than Karen’s sedan, and he was driving with the reckless confidence of someone with nothing left to lose.

At the next intersection, he pulled alongside us and swerved hard, trying to force us off the road. I cut the wheel and narrowly avoided the collision but had to slow down, and he pulled ahead then slammed on his brakes, blocking the street.

I threw the car in reverse and backed up frantically, but he was already out of his truck and running toward us. I saw the gun in his hand at the same moment Dylan screamed. “Go! Go! Go!”

I spun the wheel and reversed around the corner, shifting back to drive and taking off down a different street. A gunshot cracked through the night, and I heard glass shatter—the back window exploding inward.

Jessica screamed and ducked down in the seat. Dylan was on his phone now, finally calling 911 with shaking hands.

“We’re being chased by Raymond Reeves and he’s shooting at us! He’s a trafficker! He has a kidnapping victim! We have evidence! We need help right now!”

He rattled off street names as I called them out, trying to give the dispatcher our location. Raymond’s truck appeared behind us again, and another shot rang out, this one hitting the rear bumper with a metallic thunk.

Dylan reported, “They’re sending units to intercept.” “They said, ‘Keep driving toward the station; they’re coming to us.'”

Two more turns and I saw flashing lights ahead: three police cars forming a blockade across the street. I slammed on the brakes, and the sedan skidded to a stop maybe thirty feet from them.

Raymond’s truck squealed to a halt behind us, and I saw him through the rearview mirror, still gripping his gun, assessing his options. Officers were shouting commands, emerging from behind their vehicles with weapons drawn.

“Drop the weapon! Hands where we can see them!”

Raymond sat frozen in his truck for a long moment, and I thought he might actually try to shoot it out with the police. Then his shoulders slumped, and he slowly placed the gun on the dashboard, raising his hands.

Officers swarmed the truck, dragging him out and forcing him to the ground. I turned off the engine with shaking hands and just sat there, breathing hard, trying to process that we’d actually made it.

An officer approached the sedan carefully, flashlight raised. “Anyone injured in this vehicle?”

His voice was authoritative but concerned. I managed, though my voice came out hoarse, “We’re okay.” “But we have Jessica Holt in the back. She’s the woman from the missing person report out of Portland.”

“Raymond Reeves kidnapped her and was holding her in his shed. We have evidence.”

I gestured to Dylan’s backpack. “Photos and documents, everything you need.”

The officer’s expression shifted to shock, and he immediately called for an ambulance, then opened the back door to check on Jessica. She was crying and shaking but coherent, and she kept saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” over and over.

More police cars arrived, and suddenly the quiet residential street was chaos with lights and radios and officers coordinating. A detective arrived and took preliminary statements from all three of us right there on the street while EMTs checked us over.

My arm was badly bruised where Raymond had hit me with the bat, but not broken. Dylan’s split lip needed cleaning but was superficial.