THE STARVING WARD

I drove like a man possessed. The engine of my sedan roared as I pushed it past eighty miles an hour on the winding county road leading toward Pine Ridge.

The sun was beginning to set, casting long, menacing shadows across the dense pine trees lining the highway. The facility was ten miles away, buried deep in the woods—a perfect place to hide people the world wanted to forget.

My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. I kept picturing Arthur’s glassy, terrified eyes. He had saved my mother from starvation. He had risked his life to document Brenda’s crimes. I couldn't let him die in a padded room.

Up ahead, through the fading light, I saw it.

A white, unmarked transport van.

It was weaving slightly, driving just under the speed limit.

I hit the gas, closing the distance. As I pulled up behind the van, I saw the reinforced steel grating covering the small back windows. Through the mesh, I could barely make out the silhouette of a wheelchair.

I honked my horn, flashing my high beams.

The van didn’t stop. Instead, it accelerated.

“Come on,” I muttered, pulling out into the oncoming lane to pull alongside the driver.

I rolled down my window. The driver was the tall orderly from the dining room. He looked over, recognized me, and his eyes widened in shock.

I pointed furiously at the side of the road. “Pull over!” I screamed over the wind.

The orderly swerved the van violently toward my car, trying to run me off the road. I slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding the ditch.

He was perfectly willing to kill me to complete the transfer.

Up ahead, the massive wrought-iron gates of Pine Ridge Psychiatric emerged from the trees. The high concrete walls were topped with razor wire. Once those gates closed behind the van, I would never get Arthur out legally. The bureaucracy would take weeks, and Brenda’s people would ensure Arthur didn't survive the night.

I had one chance.

I shifted into a lower gear, flooring the accelerator. My car surged forward, pulling ahead of the van just as we approached the facility’s driveway.

I ripped the steering wheel hard to the right, slamming my brakes.

My car spun out, tires screeching in a cloud of burning rubber, and came to a dead stop—horizontally blocking the entire entrance to the Pine Ridge gates.

The orderly slammed on his brakes. The heavy transport van skidded violently, the smell of burning brake pads filling the air, before stopping inches from my driver’s side door.

I didn’t wait. I kicked my door open, grabbed the heavy tire iron from my passenger floorboard, and leaped out.

The tall orderly jumped out of the van, his hand reaching for a baton on his belt. “Are you out of your mind?!” he roared.

I swung the tire iron, smashing the driver’s side window of the van. Glass shattered everywhere.

The orderly froze, stunned by the sheer violence of the act.

“Open the back doors,” I said, pointing the tire iron at him. My chest heaved, the adrenaline making my hands shake. “Or the next swing is your kneecap.”

The second orderly climbed out of the passenger side, hands raised in surrender. “Take it easy, man. We’re just doing our jobs.”

“Your job is kidnapping,” I snarled. “Open it. Now.”

The tall orderly slowly reached to his belt, unclipped a set of keys, and walked to the back of the van. He unlocked the heavy steel doors and pulled them open.

Inside, the van was dark and freezing cold.

Arthur was strapped into his wheelchair in the center, his head slumped forward.

I climbed inside, dropping the tire iron. I unbuckled the heavy leather restraints. “Arthur. Arthur, wake up.”

He didn’t move. His skin was ice cold.

Panic seized me. I pressed two fingers to his neck. His pulse was there, but it was dangerously slow. They had given him another dose of sedatives in the van.

“Help me get him out of here!” I yelled at the orderlies.

They stood there, exchanging nervous glances, but before they could move, the sound of wailing sirens pierced the evening air.

Three state police cruisers came tearing down the highway, lights flashing, followed closely by an ambulance. David had come through.

The cruisers swerved into the driveway, boxing the van in. Officers poured out, weapons drawn.

“Hands on your heads!” an officer shouted at the orderlies.

I ignored the chaos, gently lifting Arthur out of the wheelchair and carrying his frail body toward the approaching paramedics.

“He’s been heavily sedated,” I yelled to the EMTs as they rushed forward with a gurney. “He needs a tox screen immediately. Preserve his blood for evidence.”

As the paramedics loaded Arthur into the ambulance, an officer approached me.

“Daniel Evans?” he asked.

“Yes,” I breathed, leaning against the ambulance.

“Your brother gave us the routing numbers,” the officer said, his radio crackling. “The FBI just raided the cartel’s shell company. Brenda Walsh is in custody. It’s over.”