Chapter 3: Betrayals and Breakneck Escapes

By the time those men tackled the boy and realized they had the wrong person, I’d already slipped through the alleys and made my way back to my apartment building.

The adrenaline made my legs feel like rubber bands, but I moved fast, ducking behind dumpsters and weaving through the back lot where the neighbor's old Ford still leaked oil. But I had no intention of going upstairs.

I knew the drill—first place they'd look is home. My phone buzzed so much I thought it might catch fire. Every time someone laughed behind me, I flinched. The comment section was busy doxxing me.

I scrolled for a second, just to confirm: my face, my hat, even a blurry photo of my old backpack. Within half a day, my address would be out. This was just a regular rental—hiding there would be suicide.

The building was nothing special—old bricks, buzzing fluorescent lights, a landlord who never fixed anything. I headed back to the parking lot to drive out of the city.

I stuck my key in the door, glancing over my shoulder at every passing car. Luckily, the car was new, just registered.

It still smelled like cheap vinyl and dealership air freshener. A new license plate wouldn’t be in the system yet.

I checked the temporary tag—still crisp, not yet uploaded to any database. Even if someone hacked the DMV database, it would take three to five days to find my plate number.

By then, I’d be long gone.

It was a gamble, but it was the best one I had. Right now, only my trusted roommate Jason knew about the car.

He was the only person I’d ever let borrow the keys, the only one who knew the glove box code. I trusted him completely.

We'd been through a lot—broke together, hustled for tips together, and more than once, split a cold pizza on the fire escape. He was active in the billionaire’s comment section, but hadn’t leaked my plate number. Instead, he pretended to be a witness, posted fake leads, and sent people in the wrong direction.

He spun stories so wild, even conspiracy theorists would blush. A friend in need is a friend indeed. I swore to myself that if I got the inheritance, I’d give this guy at least a few hundred million.

I'd even pictured us rolling up to the bank, sunglasses on, blowing past velvet ropes like it was nothing. Half an hour later, wearing sunglasses and a mask, I left the city without a hitch.

I kept the windows cracked, music low, and didn’t stop for coffee, not even when I passed the sign for the best diner fries on the interstate. Soon, I was cruising along a mountain road with no surveillance. In two hours, I’d reach my hometown in rural Ohio.

The highway unwound beneath my wheels, flanked by cornfields and the occasional gas station with hand-painted signs. The thrill of escape, the joy of outsmarting everyone, and the thought of all that money made me as giddy as the birds chirping outside.

I rolled down the window, letting the mountain breeze wash over me as I imagined what would come next.

The air smelled of pine and wildflowers, the radio played some Springsteen, and I let myself dream a little. Once near my hometown, I’d ditch the car.

There was a pond just past old Mr. Thompson’s barn. You can’t trust the neighbors either, so I’d sink the car in a pond nearby.

The thought made me grin—like something out of a true-crime podcast. At midnight, I’d sneak home by the back road.

I knew every gap in the fence, every spot where the creek ran shallow enough to cross. Let my mom cover for me, and I’d hide in the cellar.

She’d make up some excuse—flu, food poisoning, whatever worked. If anyone got suspicious and insisted on searching the house, I could climb over the fence straight into the woods out back.

Dad never finished that section anyway. The woods weren’t high, but they were dense, the terrain tricky, with creeks that changed course every season.

I’d caught frogs there as a kid—I knew the place like the back of my hand.

The mossy logs, the blackberry thickets, even the old deer stand—I could navigate blindfolded. Even if they brought dogs, I was confident I could play hide-and-seek with them for days.

That’s one magic trick I’d never forgotten. By the seventh day, I wouldn’t even need to come out—the billionaire would send someone to pick me up.

Maybe a helicopter would land in the woods.

I could almost hear the blades thumping, the grass flattening under the wind. Like a Hollywood blockbuster, they’d drop a rope ladder and whisk me away.

It would be the coolest ending to the weirdest week of my life. I hummed a tune, tapping the steering wheel.

The dashboard rattled, the old air freshener swinging wildly as I sped past a faded Waffle House sign. They say a car is a man’s best friend. Sinking it in a pond—well, I was a little sentimental.

I gave the dashboard a fond pat, remembering all those late-night drives and fast-food runs. After all, I’d saved for years to buy this cheap but reliable ride.

I’d named her Bessie, not that anyone else cared. But compared to a helicopter, it was a small price to pay.

Seven hundred million dollars made a lot of things feel small. The more I thought about it, the more perfect my plan seemed.

Each step unfolded in my mind like a magic trick, each risk calculated, each escape route rehearsed. I couldn’t help grinning. At that moment, I felt like I was driving a Rolls-Royce through the city, basking in everyone’s envy.

I even flashed myself a smile in the rearview, imagining what my old bullies would say if they could see me now. Just then—bang—

A car behind me suddenly rammed into mine.

My head snapped forward. A deafening crash—before I could react, the world spun.

Metal screamed, glass shattered, and my seatbelt carved a line across my chest. I was thrown from the car, airborne for a few seconds before slamming into the ground.

The gravel ripped at my jacket, the sky somersaulted above. The car behind was a heavy truck. Compared to it, my little Japanese EV was paper—it was smashed to bits.

Old Bessie rattled like she was rooting for us. The tailgate crumpled like an empty soda can. The truck driver ran over in a panic.

His boots pounded the ground. I struggled to speak.

My lips stuck together, throat raw. In that moment, I had so much to say, but no words would come.

Everything I’d rehearsed, every plea, every curse, just stuck in my mouth. Because the driver didn’t even look at me—he went straight for my pocket, hands shaking.

He was crying, breath ragged. It felt like every bone in my body was broken. I was a sack of organs, limp on the ground.

Each inhale was fire, every exhale a struggle. He found it.

The driver held up the coin, tears streaming down his face.

"Thank God, thank God, there’s really money… Mikey, this time Daddy can finally leave you something… I can die in peace…"

His words tumbled out, desperate and wild. My blurry vision drifted upward.

I saw clouds, treetops, and then a little boy—no older than eight—stumbling over, hugging the driver’s leg and sobbing, "I don’t want money, I want Dad."

His wail cut through everything. "Why did you get out of the truck?" The driver quickly covered his son’s eyes.

His hand shook as he knelt beside the boy. "You hit someone, the police will come."

"No, Daddy’s sick, understand? Daddy won’t go to jail. Daddy will always be with you, Mikey."

His voice broke. What a touching scene—fatherly love and devotion…

For a moment, I felt the old resentment slip away, replaced by a strange, hollow ache. I couldn’t help but cough up blood.

The taste was metallic, thick. My body felt like it was being dragged down by a dark hand from the underworld.

I fought the pull, but it was useless. The driver, guilt-ridden, looked around, sent the boy back to the truck, then dragged my body to the edge of the ravine, panting.

I could feel the stones and dirt grinding under me. "Bro, you… you have to understand, I really need this money."

His voice trembled with guilt. "The kid’s already lost his mom. If I don’t leave him something…"

His face was streaked with sweat and tears. "I just… I just can’t die in peace."

He looked at me, eyes wild, like he needed me to forgive him before he finished the job. I gave a bitter smile, struggling to look up at him.

My mouth twisted, pain flaring. Just then, my whole body convulsed, and I suddenly grabbed his wrist.

My grip was weak, but it startled him. He jumped, as if seeing a corpse rise, and tried frantically to shake me off.

He looked terrified, like a kid caught with a stolen candy bar. But I clung on, my eyes falling on his phone—

On the unlocked screen was a private message:

"Exclusive info: Chris Miller’s license plate, ten million."

The words burned bright, even through my fading vision. "Too much? Eight million, then."

"..."

"Fine, two hundred thousand, final offer, with real-time location. Take it or leave it. If not, I’ll find someone else."

My gut twisted. I couldn’t help but laugh, a harsh, broken sound that made my chest ache.

I tried to breathe, but it came out as a cough, the laugh torn from somewhere deep. Only then did I remember—Jason had borrowed my car.

He had the linked app, so he not only knew my plate number, but could also track my location in real time.

He must’ve sold me out—track and trade, just like that. A siren wailed behind us. The driver panicked, shoving me off the cliff with all his might.

I rasped, "Careful."

My voice sounded small, ghostly. "What?"

Sweating, the driver stared at me, confused.

His face was just a blur. The next second, the roar of an approaching car came from behind him.

I heard tires squealing, someone shouting. He finally realized. His face went pale, he let go of me and scrambled away.

I caught a flash of terror before he vanished. A crash, a scream, and the driver’s desperate cries rang out together.

The sound echoed, raw and final. Out of strength, I slid down the cliff with the truck.

The world tilted, the sky flickering in and out. This driver was a fool—just as much a fool as me.

In the end, greed makes fools of us all. When he took the coin, the roles of cat and mouse reversed.

Now, it was his turn to run.

It felt like the universe was watching with cold amusement, turning the page to the next tragic act.

The world spun. Somewhere, a siren wailed—and I realized, this wasn’t over.