Chapter 5: The Montauk Drop

The Rover ate up the road like a hungry animal, headlights cutting through the dark, flashing over twisted pines and dunes as we sped to Montauk. R turned off the lights a mile early, letting the car coast quiet, engine dropping to a low hum that mixed with the distant waves. Salt air rushed in—sharp and fishy, pushing out the smell of pine and exhaust. We were off Carter land, but still far from safe.

“Last cell tower is behind us,” R said low, eyes on the rearview. The estate lights glowed faint on the horizon. “No tracking here yet. But satellites, heat-seeking drones, license-plate readers—they have maybe forty minutes before they close in.”

We left the Rover in a gravel lot behind a closed clam shack, sign creaking in the wind. The front was smashed from the gate, paint scratched to metal—it would blend with the old cars left by tourists. R pushed it into loose sand, tossed the keys under the mat. Two rows over, he swapped our plates with a rusty Subaru—New Jersey tags, expired sticker. Nothing to notice.

He handed me a plain black backpack from the trunk, zipper sealed with tape. Inside: a cheap flip phone (no GPS, three numbers ready), $3,000 in twenties held by rubber bands, a fake New York license (“Maya Elena Torres”—my face from the pool camera, made to look like a DMV photo, good for two years), and a one-way train ticket to Portland, Maine—coach seat, leaving 04:17 a.m. from Penn Station.

“Train is safer than planes,” R said, closing the trunk. “No face scans to board. Pay cash for food. Eat, sleep, blend in.” His scar caught the dim light, white against his skin.

I held the license, hands shaking. The photo was me—eyes wide from the pool, lips open, water on my skin. They cleaned it up, stamped it valid. My stomach turned. “How long until they know I’m gone?”

“They already know,” he said, throwing me a black hoodie. “The gate break set off alarms. Drones are searching, staff is counting. They’ll say you’re on a ‘city shoot.’ But the buyers are angry—your escape ruined their live auction.”

We walked through tall beach grass that hit my legs, ocean roaring black on the left. Wind carried smells of low tide, diesel, and far-off smoke. R led me to a storage lot behind a surf shop, neon sign blinking open all night. Unit 47—the lock was already cut. Inside: an old green Jeep, rust on the edges, keys hanging from the visor next to a dead air freshener.

“Put these on,” he said, giving me a navy cap and the hoodie. “Hood up. Don’t look at cameras. Be nobody.”

I pulled the hoodie over the stiff shirt—soft and salty from many washes—and the cap low over my face. We drove out with no lights until the main road, then joined light traffic: trucks with surfboards, Ubers dropping drunks, a cop on his phone at a light.

The drive west was silent. Windows cracked a little, no radio. Every car behind felt like danger. R’s hands were tight on the wheel, scar pulling when he spoke.

“They’ll put your files on the dark web by midnight,” he said, checking mirrors. “Fake videos—your face on bodies that aren’t real. Group scenes, animals, even death edits if they’re cruel. Once it’s online, it stays forever.”

I swallowed hard. “How do you know them? Damian. Seraphina. The board.”

He let out a short breath. “I worked for them five years ago. Took photos—started with fancy nudes, silk sheets, soft light. Got darker: ropes, groups, live streams. I left when they wanted to film a kid—sixteen, drugged. I said no. Walked out with a broken jaw, cracked ribs, and a hard drive I kept.” He tapped the glove box. “Proof. They know I have it. I know they’ll kill to take it back.”

We hit the big highway at 11:47 p.m.—few cars, trucks, drunks. R took an exit in Ronkonkoma, pulled into a bright laundromat lot under yellow lights. Some minivans, an old Civic, a delivery van with flashing lights. He turned off the engine.

“New plan,” he said. “Train station is too risky. We take the ferry to Bridgeport, bus to Albany, then cross to Canada. The border there is easier, fewer cameras, friendlier guards.”

From the glove box: a thick envelope sealed with red wax. Inside: a Canadian passport (“Maya Elena Torres,” same photo, born 1993), $10,000 in Canadian cash, a prepaid card with $2,500, and a small USB drive labeled CARTER ARCHIVE – FULL.

“Everything is on here,” he said, tapping the drive. “47 terabytes. Thousands of people—models, escorts, lost kids, rich heirs. Dates, places, buyer info. If they come for you, share it. Send to news, police, Wikileaks. They’ll stop or fall.”

The passport photo was me—but stronger. Eyes calm, mouth firm. Someone ready for more.

We took the 1:30 ferry under bright lights, Jeep parked below with dirty trucks. I stood on the top deck, wind pulling my hoodie, Long Island shrinking behind. My real phone—inside R’s signal-blocking pouch—buzzed once. I took it out, screen cracked from the fall.

Damian:

$425,000 final bid. You’re famous on three continents. Come home, Lena. The set needs its star. We’ll forget the drama.

Attached: a green night-vision video of me sliding down the chute, legs kicking, landing hard. Music, slow motion of my scared face. Caption: Subject L.M. – Escape Attempt (Failed). Comments flying: $450K, $475K, $500K – SOLD.

R looked over my shoulder. “They’re trying to pull you back. Want a third part—catch, sell, take again. Film the ‘comeback.’”

I deleted it, turned the phone off, and threw it into the water. It flashed once, then sank.

In Bridgeport, we left the Jeep in a motel long-stay lot—keys inside, fake ticket on the window. Took a Greyhound bus north—paid cash, no ID, smelled of cleaner and sadness. I slept in bits, head on the glass, R’s jacket over me. In Albany we changed to a local train—hard seats, dim lights. By morning, Plattsburgh, the border close under a cold sky.

R stopped at a diner called The Northway, half the sign dark, coffee thick and strong. He bought two large cups, gave me one last envelope—thin, no seal.

“Now you’re Maya. Speak French with a Québec accent if asked. Upload the drive from a library in Montréal—use Tor, hide your path. Then disappear. New city every six months. No social media. No old friends.”

Inside: bus ticket to Montréal, a transit card, and a note: You’re not the first to run. You won’t be the last. Burn this.

“And you?” I asked, voice dry.

He shrugged, drinking coffee. “I have a boat in Burlington. 28 feet, hidden space below. They won’t look north yet.” He gave me a silver lighter with a small anchor. “Need help? Light a flare. I’ll see it.”

We stood in the gravel lot, smoke from the bus around our feet, door open. The burner phone buzzed—R:

Bounty raised. $100K if alive. $50K for proof. Dark web calls you ‘The Ghost Star.’

I turned it off, crushed it under my shoe, ground it into the dirt.

The driver honked. I got on, ticket checked, seat 14A by the window. The border faded, river shining under weak sun. Three days later, in a quiet Montréal library, I opened the USB. 47 terabytes. Thousands of lives—models, escorts, runaways, heirs, powerful kids. Dates, places, buyers, secret talks. Mine was just one.

I uploaded 10GB to a hidden dark-web site—no name, no trace. Then more. Then all of it. By night, sites crashed, people shouted online, police got alerts. Carter company stock fell 8% after trading closed. #SilkenCommands was everywhere on X.

I walked out into the cold, hood up. Maya Torres wasn’t just a name now—it was power. The gold chain was gone. The red ribbon burned to nothing. And across the border, Damian and Seraphina were learning: some who escape don’t just hide.

They fight back.