Chapter 2 - THE AMBULANCE AND THE ADDRESS
The red and blue lights fractured the darkness of I-75 long before the siren’s wail reached them. Daniel stayed exactly where he was, kneeling on the freezing gravel, keeping his hands visible and his voice low. The little girl—she told him her name was Maya—had not moved away from his coat, but her good hand remained fiercely gripped around the collar, ready to drag the baby away if Daniel made a sudden move.
The ambulance pulled onto the shoulder, followed closely by a state trooper’s cruiser. Doors slammed. Heavy boots crunched on the asphalt.
"Stay back, please," a paramedic called out, approaching with a trauma kit.
"She's terrified," Daniel warned, standing up slowly and taking a deliberate step back to give them space. "Her left arm is fractured. The baby is barely responsive. Exposure, maybe worse."
When the paramedic reached for the baby, Maya let out a raw, feral shriek. She threw her broken body over the bundle, her fractured arm grinding against the gravel. "No! They’ll tell the men! They'll tell the men in the suits!"
Daniel’s blood went cold. The men in the suits.
He stepped forward, raising his hands toward the paramedics. "Give me a second. Please." He knelt back down, locking eyes with Maya. "Maya, look at me. My name is Daniel. I am not with the police, and I am not with any men in suits. But your sister is going to die if you don't let this woman help her. Do you understand?"
Maya’s pale, trembling lips parted. The baby let out another whistling, terrifyingly weak breath. Slowly, agonizingly, Maya pulled back, allowing the paramedic to lift the baby from Daniel's wool coat.
As the coat shifted, something fell from Maya’s pocket. A crumpled, rain-spotted piece of heavy cardstock. The wind caught it, skittering it across the gravel until it hit Daniel’s shoe. He picked it up.
It was a glossy brochure. The gold-foil lettering on the front caught the strobe of the police lights.
SafeHaven Family Foundations: Building a Better Tomorrow.
Daniel stared at it. His stomach dropped into a bottomless abyss. He had just left the SafeHaven annual gala. He had written a check for half a million dollars to their CEO, a charismatic man named Richard Vance, not three hours ago. The charity claimed to provide transitional housing for destitute mothers.
"Maya," Daniel said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as the paramedics loaded the baby onto a gurney. "Where did you get this?"
"The warehouse," she sobbed, finally letting the pain of her broken arm overtake her. "Where they put Mommy. Box number four. Please don't let them take us back."
Daniel folded the brochure and slipped it into his pocket. The numbness that had defined his life for five years evaporated, replaced by a terrifying, white-hot clarity.
May you like
"I'm riding with them," Daniel told the state trooper, pulling out his driver's license and his corporate identification. "I'm Daniel Whitmore. I'll cover all medical expenses. But no one—absolutely no one—is to be notified about these children until I say so."
---
