A Little Girl Pushed My Pregnant Wife Into the Resort Pool—Seconds Later, We Realized She Had Actually Saved Her Life ⭐

We couldn't stay in the church forever. We had no food, no water, and Mara needed medical attention. The stress was taking a toll on her body; she looked pale, and her breathing was shallow.

"We need to get to the American Embassy in Mexico City," I said, pacing the dirt floor of the ruins. "If we can get onto US soil, we can expose this. I have a friend from college, Greg. He's an attaché there. I can call him."

Evie shook her head. "Digital communications will be intercepted. Sterling’s reach is absolute."

"I'll use a burner phone," I insisted, digging into the glovebox of the stolen truck and finding an old, prepaid Nokia. "It's all we have. If we try to cross the border in a stolen truck, the Federales will arrest us, and Sterling will have us killed in a holding cell."

Reluctantly, Evie didn't stop me. I powered on the phone and dialed the emergency embassy line I had memorized years ago.

Greg answered on the third ring. I quickly explained we were in trouble—I left out the psychic mutations and evil cabals—and just told him a powerful resort owner was trying to kill us to cover up an accident.

"David, Jesus," Greg said, his voice tense. "Okay, listen to me. Don't come to the embassy. The local police are working with the resort. If you show up here, they'll arrest you at the gate. Meet me at the old rail yard in Tlalnepantla, north of the city. I'll bring diplomatic passports and an armored car to smuggle you out."

"Thank you, Greg. Two hours," I said, hanging up. I felt a surge of hope. "He's going to help us."

We drove south. Dawn was beginning to break, painting the desert in hues of blood orange and bruised purple. Mara slept fitfully against my shoulder.

When we reached the rusted gates of the Tlalnepantla rail yard, a heavy fog had rolled in. Towering, rusted train cars sat like metal skeletons in the mist. I parked the truck and left the engine idling.

"Wait here," I said, stepping out into the damp morning air.

I walked toward the center of the yard. A black SUV was parked between two freight cars. The headlights flicked on, blinding me.

"Greg?" I called out, shielding my eyes.

The door of the SUV opened. A man stepped out, but it wasn't my friend.

It was Arthur Sterling. He was holding a suppressed pistol, and a smug, victorious smile played on his lips.

"Hello, David," Sterling called out, his voice echoing in the empty yard. "Your friend Greg sends his apologies. It turns out his gambling debts were quite easily leveraged."

From the shadows of the trains, a dozen tactical operatives stepped out, their rifles raised, laser sights painting my chest, my face, and the truck behind me.

"It's over, David," Sterling said, walking slowly toward me. "Bring me the woman. Bring me the anomaly. And I will make your death quick."

Before I could react, the horn of the pickup truck blared.

I turned. Evie was standing in the bed of the truck. Her eyes were closed. She wasn't pointing. She was doing something else. She was calculating.

"Drop!" Evie screamed.

I threw myself to the dirt.

Above us, one of the massive, rusted cranes used for moving freight containers groaned. Evie had seen the micro-fractures in the crane's base. She had calculated the exact frequency of the truck horn needed to vibrate the rusted bolts past their breaking point.

With a deafening shriek of tearing metal, the eighty-ton steel crane collapsed. It didn't fall on us. It fell directly onto the black SUV and the center of the tactical squad.

The ground shook like an earthquake. Dust and metal shrapnel exploded into the air.

"Drive!" Evie yelled, jumping back into the cab.

I scrambled up, coughing through the dust, and threw myself behind the wheel. But as I slammed the truck into reverse, a figure emerged from the smoke.

Sterling. His suit was torn, his face bloodied, but his eyes were wide with maniacal fury. He raised his pistol and fired three rapid shots at the truck.

Two shattered the windshield.