A_Stolen_Car_&_A_Border_Crossing_–_You_Won’t_Believe_How_They_Escape VIDEO

This chapter is a sneak peek of the Jack Coleman series.

The air moves among the branches. A bird sings somewhere in the forest. Sam plays with the pineapple, rolling it from one hand to the other.

Five minutes pass. Ten.

An engine sounds in the distance. I look toward the lake road. A car appears. A sleek black sedan, no license plate visible. It slows at the intersection and stops by the roadside ditch.

The driver turns off the engine. A young man, baseball cap, sunglasses. He steps out of the car. Leaves the keys on the hood and walks toward the forest, moving away without looking back.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t search. He simply leaves the car and disappears into the trees.

I wait thirty seconds. Then I get up.

—Stay here—I tell Emma.

I cross the road quickly. I take the keys from the hood. I open the driver’s door. On the passenger seat, a brown folder. Inside: two Canadian passports, a birth certificate, an envelope of cash. The photos are Emma and Sam, but the names are different.

I climb into the car. I start the engine. I turn and park behind the bushes.

—Get in.

Emma stands up. She picks up Sam, opens the rear door, sets him in the seat, and sits beside him.

—Are we okay?—she asks.

—Yeah.

I leave the intersection. I take Highway 61 north.

I glance in the rearview mirror. The road stays empty.

But time is running out. And I know it.

I drive with both hands on the wheel. The black sedan handles well. The engine barely makes a sound. I check the speedometer. Sixty kilometers per hour. Enough not to draw attention.

Emma looks out the back window. Her fingers drum on the seat.

—How much farther?—she asks.

—Half an hour to the crossing. That’s what the map says.

—And the dogs?

—They can’t track us in a car.

—But they can look for the car.

—Yeah.

She presses her lips together. Sam plays with his seat belt.

—Mama, when do we get there?

—Soon, sweetheart.

—And where are we sleeping?

—In a new house. In a new country.

—With Daddy?

—With Daddy.

He smiles. He looks out the window. The landscape rushes by. Green hills, an occasional isolated barn, power lines crossing the road.

The road curves. I pass a green sign: Canada Border 15 km.

My stomach tightens.

—Fifteen kilometers— I say.

—What if there’s a checkpoint?

—We’ll take the forest track. Valeria said it’s marked with a red ribbon.

Emma nods. She pulls the map from her jacket pocket and spreads it on the seat.

—It says the turnoff is two kilometers before the border station. To the right. A dirt road.

—I’ll find it.

I drive in silence. The kilometers tick by. I pass a field with cows. A yellow tractor works in the distance. Everything seems calm.

Too calm.

I see the turnoff. A dirt track disappearing into the trees. A red ribbon tied to a wooden post.

I slow down. I turn right.

The sedan bumps over potholes. Branches scrape the sides. Sam laughs.

—Again!—he says.

—Later, son.

The road narrows. The trees close in. There’s barely room for the car.

Emma grabs the seat.

—Are you sure this is the way?

—I’m not— I answer. —But it’s the only road we’ve got.

The track grows rougher. The wheels skid on loose stones. I grip the wheel hard to keep the car on the right path.

—There—it’s Emma.

She points ahead. A red ribbon hangs from a branch to the right. Another one farther down, tied to a fallen log.

I follow the markers. The path suddenly opens. A patch of light. A clearing with a half‑collapsed wooden shed. Beyond it, a rusted wire fence fading into the trees. And beyond that, an asphalt road.

Canada.

I park beside the shed. I turn off the engine.

—We’re here—I say.

Emma opens the door. Gets out. Sam follows. I grab the folder with the documents and the cash. I tuck the gun into my waistband, covered by my jacket.

The fence has a gap. Just below, the wire is cut, the edges bent upward. Someone has passed through here before.

—This way—I say.

I push the strands aside. I go first. Then I help Emma. Sam crawls through, laughing.

On the other side, the road is empty. A green sign reads Welcome to Manitoba.

—What now?—Emma asks.

—We walk south. Look for a village. Or a main road.

—And Frank? Valeria said he’d pick us up.

—She said if he wasn’t there, we’d go on alone.

—We wait—I say.

The sun sinks behind the trees. The shadow stretches across the road. Sam sits on the ground, drawing lines in the dust with a stick. Emma paces back and forth, arms crossed.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.

—He’s not coming—she says.

—Not yet.

—Jack.

—A little longer.

I look up and down the road. Empty. Only the wind lifting dust.

—Sam, sweetie—Emma says. —Come here.

He gets up and runs to her. She hugs him without a word.

I hear an engine in the distance. Not a car. A motorcycle. The sound draws closer fast. A figure appears at the bend. A black motorcycle, splattered with mud. The rider wears a helmet and a leather jacket. He slows when he sees me, stopping a few meters away.

He cuts the engine. Takes off the helmet.

A woman. Short hair, gray at the temples, a scar on her right cheek.

—Jack Coleman?

—Yeah.

—Frank sent me. His car broke down. He told me to take you to Swan Lake. He’s waiting there.

—Who are you?

—Someone who gets paid for not asking questions.

I look at Emma. She shakes her head.

—No—I say.

—It’s your only option— she says. —You come with me, or you wait for the Canadian police to find you. You decide.

The motorcycle’s engine rumbles in the silence.

—Get on—I say to Emma.

She stares at me. Then she picks up Sam and walks toward the bike.

The woman puts on her helmet and starts the engine. The bike revs. Emma climbs on behind, with Sam between her and the rider. I step on behind Emma, wrapping my arms around her to hold on to the seat. It’s a tight fit. Sam clutches his mother’s jacket.

—Hold tight—says the woman.

She accelerates. The motorcycle shoots forward along the road. The wind hits my face. The trees blur at the sides. Emma presses Sam against her chest. I grip the edge of the seat with one hand and Emma’s waist with the other.

The road curves. The woman leans the bike into the turns, almost grazing the asphalt. Sam shouts, but I can’t tell if it’s from fear or excitement.

I look back. The road is empty. No one’s following us.

We ride for twenty minutes. The landscape changes. Gentle hills, small lakes, wooden cabins. The sun is almost gone. The sky turns red and orange.

The woman slows and turns off onto a dirt track. The trees close in. The path ends at a clearing beside a lake. A log cabin, with lights in the windows. A parked car beside it: a gray SUV.

She kills the engine.

—We’re here—she says, and climbs off.

I get off first. I help Emma and Sam. The boy’s cheeks are red from the wind.

—Are you okay?—I ask Emma.

—Yeah—I say, though her voice trembles.

The cabin door opens. A man comes out. Around fifty, gray beard, round glasses. He wears a wool sweater and slippers.

—Jack—he says, with a tired smile. —It’s been a long time.

I don’t recognize him.

—Who are you?—I ask.

—Frank Morrison. The one who’s taking you across.

—Frank Morrison—I repeat, tasting the name. —I don’t remember you.

—Wouldn’t expect you to. We met once, five years ago. You paid me well for a dirty job. Since then, I’ve only heard of you through Valeria.

—And now?

—Now I owe you a favor. Valeria called me this morning. Said you needed to cross. And that you couldn’t wait.

—Can you do it?

He smiles. A smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

—I’ve got a boat at the dock. It crosses the lake to the American shore. There’s a car waiting there with clean documents. But we need to move fast. Mitchell’s dogs are already on the Canadian side. Asking questions.

—How much time do we have?

—An hour. Maybe less.

I look at Emma. She holds Sam in her arms. The boy has his eyes closed, his head on her shoulder.

—Let’s go—I say.

Frank nods. He points to the dock behind the cabin. A motorboat, covered with a green tarp.

—Sam, wake up—Emma says softly. —We’re going for a boat ride.

He opens his eyes, drowsy.

—In a boat?

—Yeah, sweetie.

We walk toward the dock. The wood creaks under our feet. Frank pulls off the tarp. The boat is small, but it looks solid. Twin outboard motors. Full fuel tanks.

—Get in—he says.

I help Emma down. Then I jump in. Frank starts the engines. The water churns behind us. The boat glides toward the center of the lake.

The cabin grows smaller. The lights shrink to tiny dots. The lake is dark, the sky studded with stars. The wind smells of water and pine.

I look back. The Canadian shore fades into the night.

Ahead, the American shore rises as a black line on the horizon.

Frank speeds up. The boat jumps over the waves. Emma hugs Sam. I grip the side of the boat.

—Easy—I say.

She nods, her eyes fixed on the front.

The night closes in around us.

The engines tear through the silence of the lake. Water sprays against the hull. Frank keeps one hand on the wheel, his eyes locked on the dark horizon.

—How much farther?—I ask.

—Ten minutes. Maybe less.

Emma presses Sam against her chest. The boy has fallen asleep again, lulled by the rhythm of the motor.

—What if someone’s waiting on the other side?

—There shouldn’t be. The landing’s on private property. The owner’s a friend.

—Friend of whose?

—Mine. And yours, even if you don’t remember.

The boat hits a bigger wave. I grab the side. Emma staggers, then finds her balance.

The American shore draws closer. I make out the outline of a wooden dock. A dark car parked beside it.

—There—he says.

He slows. The boat glides toward the dock. Frank cuts the engines. The silence is sudden, almost deafening.

—Get out fast. Don’t turn on the lights. The keys are under the driver’s seat.

I jump onto the dock. I help Emma down with Sam. Frank tosses us a waterproof bag.

—Inside there’s dry clothes and some food. Don’t stop until you reach Winnipeg.

—Thanks.

—Don’t thank me. Take care of them.

I nod. Emma walks toward the car, Sam still asleep in her arms. I open the driver’s door. The keys are there, just like he said.

I turn on the engine. A soft hum. I check the fuel.

Emma sits in back with Sam. I pull out of the lot without lights, guided only by the moon.

The road opens in front of us.

Dark. Empty.

But we can’t stop.

I drive without lights for the first few minutes. The road is straight, lined by trees that cut black shapes against the starry sky. I keep one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift.

—Do you think they’re following us?—Emma asks from the back.

—I don’t know. But I’m not taking chances.

—Where exactly are we going?

—Winnipeg. Frank said not to stop until we get there.

—And then?

—We find someplace to hide. Change cars. Keep going east.

She doesn’t answer. I glance in the rearview mirror. Only darkness. No lights behind.

—Sam’s still asleep—she says. —He hasn’t woken up, not even with the engine.

—Better that way.

—Do you think we can trust Frank?

—I don’t know. But he got us this far. For now, that’s enough.

The road curves. I turn on the headlights. The beam lights the cracked asphalt. On both sides, the trees close in, forming a dark tunnel.

—Jack.

—What.

—Thanks. For not giving up.

I don’t know how to answer. I squeeze the wheel and keep driving.

The nearest town appears twenty minutes later. A sign reads Sandilands. I slow down as I pass through. A closed gas station, a bar with dim lights, houses with dark windows.

—Should we stop?—she asks.

—No. We keep going.

I leave the town behind. Highway 12 stretches north. The fuel gauge reads half‑full. Enough to reach Winnipeg.

The landscape grows more urban as Winnipeg draws near. Scattered lights on the horizon, then denser clusters. Low buildings, warehouses, open gas stations.

—I’ll find a motel—I say. —Something discreet, on the outskirts.

—Alright.

I exit Highway 12 and take an eastbound turnoff. Side streets, quiet residential blocks. A neon sign flickers: Paradise Inn, its a burnt out.

I park in front of the office. I get out. The air smells of hot asphalt and freshly cut grass.

The receptionist is an older woman, reading glasses, a book open on the counter.

—One room?—she asks.

—Yes. For two adults and a child.

—How many nights?

—One. Maybe two.

She nods. She swipes the credit card Valeria gave me. The name is fake. The payment goes through.

—Room 12. End of the hall. Breakfast is from seven to nine.

—Thanks.

I take the key. I go back to the car. I park in front of Room 12. Emma gets out with Sam, still asleep. I open the door.

The room is small, clean. Two beds, a TV, a bathroom. Beige curtains.

Emma lays Sam on one of the beds. Takes off his shoes and covers him with a blanket.

—I’ll keep watch—I say.

—Jack. Rest a little.

—I can’t.

—At least sit down.

I sit on the edge of the other bed. Emma sits beside me.

—We’ve come a long way—she says.

—We’re not there yet.

—But we’re closer.

I look at the window. The curtain is drawn, but I can see the glow from the parking lot.

—Tomorrow we’ll get a new car—I say. —And find someplace safer.

She nods. She rests her head on my shoulder.

—Thanks, Jack.

I don’t answer. I just stay still, listening to her breathing.

The silence stretches.

But I know this isn’t over. It’s only a pause. 

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