Chapter 11 - The Static on Channel Nine
The bright Georgia sunshine had barely warmed my dashboard when the radio began to screech.
It was not the standard commercial broadcast or a country tune drifting in from Atlanta.
It was the heavy, scrambled burst of an encrypted emergency frequency.
I tapped the tuner on the dash, my heart skipping a sudden, erratic beat.
The frequency was locked onto Blackwood County Sheriff’s Department channel nine.
It was the private tactical channel Marcus Miller had given me just an hour before.
Through the ocean of harsh static, a breath rattled like dry leaves in winter.
"Maya... if you can hear this... turn around..."
The voice belonged to Sheriff Marcus Miller, but the authority was completely stripped from it.
It sounded choked, desperate, and laden with excruciating agony.
"Sheriff? Marcus, what’s happening?" I shouted, grabbing the handheld mic and slamming my foot onto the brake.
The tires shrieked against the asphalt, leaving twin streaks of black rubber on Highway 41.
"They weren't... they weren't just Conrad’s men..." Marcus gasped, his words severed by violent coughing.
"They waited for you to leave... Maya, they took them... they took Clara..."
The sound of a heavy crash reverberated through the speaker, followed by the deafening crack of a magnum rifle.
Then, a voice that was smooth, cultured, and devoid of human warmth cut into the feed.
"Tell the girl to bring the ledger Conrad hid in the floorboards, Sheriff, or the infant won't see twilight."
The transmission severed into flat, dead silence.
A chill colder than the midnight storm gripped the back of my neck.
May you like
I didn't think twice.
I threw the transmission into reverse, spun the wheel hard, and sent the sedan roaring back toward Blackwood County.
