Run in the Dark

A teen, a veteran, and a journalist fight to expose a deadly conspiracy.

The night air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked asphalt, headlights smearing across the slick Oklahoma highway. Elena’s lungs burned as she ran, clutching the hoodie tighter around her thin frame. Her sneakers slapped the ground in a frantic rhythm. Behind her, far off but too close, a pair of headlights drifted along the county road like a predator’s eyes. She didn’t dare look back.

Her hand pressed against the pocket of her hoodie where the flash drive dug into her ribs. The little piece of plastic was heavier than a brick, heavier than the years they had stolen from her. She kept moving.

A green highway sign loomed out of the dark—"Wynnewood, 2 miles". The town’s lights shimmered faintly beyond the trees.

She veered off the road, heart thudding, and cut through a field where the grass snagged her jeans. A barn light glowed in the distance. Beyond it, a low cinderblock building with a tilted sign: "Vance Auto Repair".

Elena stumbled into the gravel lot, nearly tripping over a tire rim. The big doors were shut, but a strip of yellow light leaked from a side window. She pressed her face against the glass. Inside, a man bent over an engine block, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grease painting his hands.

She pounded on the door before her brain could argue.

The man straightened, frowning. He was tall, lean, maybe mid-forties, with dark hair silvered at the edges. His eyes, sharp and steel blue, cut through the glass.

He opened the door a crack. “Shop’s closed.”

Elena’s throat locked. Words refused to form. She stood there trembling, hoodie dripping rainwater onto the concrete.

Todd Vance’s first instinct was to shut the door. He’d spent five years perfecting solitude, and strangers didn’t just knock at midnight. But something in her face—fear, raw and honest—stopped him.

“You hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head, though the bruises on her wrist told a different story.

Todd sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Come in before you drown out there.”

Inside, the shop smelled of oil and hot metal. Tools lined the pegboard in neat rows. A radio murmured low static in the corner.

Elena hovered by the door, eyes darting like a trapped bird.

“You got a name?” Todd asked, wiping his hands on a rag.

Silence. She pressed deeper into the hoodie.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. But if somebody’s after you, this ain’t the safest pit stop.”

As if on cue, distant tires crunched on gravel—a set of headlights swept across the lot.

Elena froze, breath hitching.

Todd caught the flicker of terror in her eyes. He moved to the switch, killed the overhead light, and the shop dropped into darkness.

The headlights slowed, lingered, then rolled on down the road. Only when the red taillights vanished did Todd exhale.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Whoever you’re running from—looks like they’re close.”

Elena’s nails dug into her palms. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. “Please … don’t tell anyone I’m here.”



Across town, in a diner that hadn’t changed since the seventies, "Cassidy Monroe" sat hunched over black coffee gone cold. The tape hissed on her microcassette recorder as she replayed an interview from that morning—another dead end, another “I don’t know anything, lady.”

Cass was used to the runaround. Corruption had a way of choking silence out of small towns. But she’d been chasing this trafficking story for months, and Wynnewood was humming with the wrong kind of quiet.

She popped the tape, labeled it with a sharpie: *Wynnewood – 8/15*. Another file for the box under her bed. Another trail that might link to the names on her wall.

Her phone buzzed. A contact: *Source says movement tonight—girl on the run. Check south side.*

Cass’s pulse ticked up. She tossed some bills on the counter, grabbed her jacket, and headed for the door.



Back at the garage, Todd heated water in an old kettle and poured it into a mug. “All I got is instant,” he said.

Elena sat stiff at his workbench, arms wrapped around herself. She hadn’t touched the blanket he’d draped over her shoulders.

He slid the mug toward her. “Drink. You look like you’ll fold if the wind blows.”

Her hands shook as she wrapped them around the cup. The steam blurred her vision, and for a moment she thought of her mother’s kitchen years ago, before everything had been ripped away. She pushed the thought down.

Todd leaned against the counter, studying her. He didn’t ask questions—not yet. He knew that look, the hollow one people carried after war zones and wrecks.

Elena sipped. The warmth steadied her, but her eyes kept flicking toward the window.

“You’re safe here,” Todd said. He wasn’t sure if he believed it, but he said it anyway.



Miles away, "Caleb Voss" leaned against his truck at a rest stop, night wind tugging at his tactical jacket. He lit a cigarette, scar along his jaw catching the glow.

The girl was out there. He could smell fear on the wind.

He tapped ash into the dirt, pulled a burner phone from his pocket, and dialed.

“She’s loose,” Caleb said, voice flat. “Heading north. I’ll bring her in.”

A pause, then a low reply crackled through the speaker. Caleb smiled thinly.

He crushed the cigarette under his boot. “Time to clean this up.”



The next morning broke pale and gray. A low mist clung to the streets of Wynnewood, softening the outlines of the town’s single stoplight and weathered storefronts. Todd Vance stood in his garage doorway, a mug of coffee steaming in his hand, watching the horizon.

Elena hadn’t slept. She’d curled up on a cot in the back room, flinching at every groan of the old building. Todd had heard her muffled cries in the night, the kind you didn’t wake someone from.

He sipped his coffee, thinking. The smart move was to call the Sheriff’s office, hand the girl over, and wash his hands. But his gut said no. Too clean, too easy. Whoever she was running from wouldn’t hesitate to use law enforcement—he’d seen enough in uniform to know the system bent under pressure.

Todd made the decision the second she’d banged on his door.

A voice cut through the morning. “You Todd Vance?”

Todd turned. A tall woman approached, her boots crunching on the gravel. She moved with the quick, direct stride of someone used to bad places—short blonde hair, leather jacket, eyes sharp and unblinking.

“That’s me,” Todd said carefully.

She flipped open a wallet—press credentials, worn at the edges. “Cassidy Monroe. I’m a journalist. I’m looking for a girl who ran from something ugly last night. Folks said she might’ve come this way.”

Todd’s jaw tightened. “Reporters don’t usually knock on my door.”

“Yeah, well, traffickers don’t usually lose their cargo either.” Cass scanned the lot, then pinned him with her gaze. “You’ve seen her.”

Behind them, a sound—metal clattering. Elena had edged into the doorway, hoodie zipped high. Her eyes widened at Cass, then darted back to Todd.

Cass softened her stance. “Hey. Name’s Cass. I’m not here to hurt you. I want to stop the people chasing you.”

Elena flinched, stepping back into the shadows.

Todd put a hand up. “Slow down. She doesn’t trust anyone, and you barging in ain’t helping.”

Cass didn’t look away. “Trust me, she doesn’t have time not to.”



Two miles outside town, Caleb Voss leaned against a patrol car parked under the trees. Beside him, Sergeant Mark Ellison adjusted his neatly pressed uniform, sunglasses glinting.

“Kid’s in town,” Caleb said, scanning the empty road.

Ellison smirked. “You really think Vance will stick his neck out? Guy’s a ghost. Drinks, fixes engines, avoids people.”

“Ghosts surprise you,” Caleb muttered. He flicked a lighter, fire catching the edge of a matchbook. When it burned to his fingers, he let it drop into the gravel, leaving a black curl of ash—his calling card.

Ellison glanced toward Wynnewood. “Fine. I’ll keep the department looking the other way. You find her, bring her quiet. No headlines.”

Caleb’s smile was thin. “Headlines are your problem, Sergeant. Cleanup’s mine.”



Back at the garage, the air buzzed with distrust. Cass paced, words coming quickly.

“There’s a trafficking pipeline running through Oklahoma. Been digging into it for months. I know the names, the routes, even some of the buyers. But I don’t have hard proof. Not yet. That’s where she comes in.” She gestured to Elena.

Elena’s grip tightened around the mug Todd had given her. “They’ll kill me.”

Cass crouched, meeting her eyes. “Not if we get to them first. Whatever you’ve got—records, files, photos—it could burn their whole operation down.”

Elena hesitated, then slid a trembling hand into her hoodie pocket. She pulled out the flash drive. Todd’s brows rose. Cass’s breath caught.

“That,” Cass whispered, “might be the key.”

Todd crossed his arms. “And you expect her just to hand it over?”

Cass straightened. “No. I expect us to protect her while we use it.”

Todd studied both of them, then shook his head. “Hell of a team. A scared kid, a reporter with a death wish, and a washed-up mechanic.”

Elena’s voice cracked, small but fierce: “Better than being alone.”

For the first time since the night before, Todd saw something in her eyes—not just fear, but a spark. He recognized it. The same spark he’d seen in young airmen pulling themselves up after disaster.

He sighed. “Alright. Guess I’m in.”



That night, in the dim glow of the garage, they crowded around Todd’s old laptop. Cass slid the flash drive in. The screen blinked, loaded with folders—names, numbers, transaction logs. Images.

Cass cursed under her breath. “This is it. Routes, drop points… hell, even payouts.” She looked at Elena. “How did you get this?”

Elena’s voice was flat, distant. “I cleaned offices. They thought I didn’t speak English. I copied it one night.”

Todd leaned closer, scrolling. His stomach tightened at the scale of it. “This is a damn army.”

Cass’s recorder clicked on with a sharp *snick*. Her voice was steady. “This is going to blow them wide open.”

The shop’s phone rang.

Everyone froze.

Todd stared at the landline on the wall—no one ever called.

The ringing cut off. A beat of silence. Then headlights washed across the windows.

Elena gasped. Todd killed the lights in a motion, muscle memory from years of blackout drills. They stood in silence as a truck idled outside, engine low and patient.

Cass whispered, “They found us.”



The truck outside idled for a long moment, lights sweeping across the garage windows. Then it eased forward, tires crunching gravel, and disappeared down the road.

Cass let out a shaky breath. “They’re probing. Seeing who’s awake.”

Todd kept staring through the blinds until the taillights vanished. “That was no probe. That was a warning.”

Elena hugged herself, eyes wide. “He does that. Caleb. Drives around, waiting. So you know he’s close.”

Cass’s jaw set. “We move now.”

Todd turned on her. “And go where? She can’t just walk into a police station. Not with Ellison running the show.”

Elena blinked. “Ellison?”

Todd froze. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Cass stepped in. “What do you know about him?”

Todd’s expression was grim. “Grew up with the man. Always knew which side of the bread was buttered. He smiles for the town, but…” He shook his head. “If this operation runs through here, Ellison’s the grease keeping the gears turning.”

Cass nodded slowly. “That tracks. Every lead I chased circled back to a dead end in his jurisdiction.”

Elena’s voice was barely a whisper. “He… he was at the warehouse. He talked to them.”

Todd looked down, fists clenched. A uniform meant to protect her had been the face of her nightmare.



By mid-morning, Wynnewood felt different. Too quiet. The diner’s blinds were half-drawn. The gas station clerk barely looked up as Todd filled his truck.

“Eyes are on us,” Cass muttered, scanning the street.

Todd slid into the driver’s seat. Elena sat between them, hoodie pulled low. “We need cover,” Todd said. “Somewhere no one’ll think to look.”

Cass smirked. “You got somewhere in mind, or are you just hoping my reporter’s intuition kicks in?”

Todd didn’t answer. He turned west, down backroads that wound toward the scrubland. After twenty minutes, he pulled up to a weather-beaten hangar, sagging under years of neglect.

Cass arched an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“My old bird’s nest,” Todd said, unlocking the padlock. The door groaned open to reveal a dusty Cessna under a tarp, tools scattered where he’d left them years ago. “Nobody comes out here.”

Elena touched the plane’s wing, eyes wide. “You fly?”

“Used to.” Todd’s voice softened. “Haven’t had reason to in a while.”

Cass ran a hand along the fuselage. “Well, congratulations. You’ve just turned us into moving targets on two fronts—ground and sky.”

Todd ignored her, busy checking the locks and shadows. The place would hold, for now.



But Ellison wasn’t leaving things to chance.

That afternoon, at the Sheriff’s office, he leaned against his desk, flipping through a thin folder. A deputy hovered uncertainly in the doorway.

“You want me to put out an alert?” the deputy asked.

Ellison smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “No need. We don’t want panic. Just keep your ears open. Anyone sees Vance, you tell me first.”

When the deputy left, Ellison closed the folder. Inside were surveillance photos—Todd at his garage, Cass entering town, Elena’s blurred figure at his side.

Caleb stepped out of the shadows, arms folded. “You’re moving too slow.”

Ellison’s jaw twitched. “You want heat on us? Be my guest. But when the state boys come sniffing, don’t expect me to clean it up.”

Caleb leaned close, scar catching the light. “You do your job, Sergeant. I’ll do mine.”

He left the office, leaving the faint smell of smoke and leather behind.

Ellison exhaled, his smile gone. The walls felt smaller every day.



Back at the hangar, night settled like a shroud. The only light came from a lantern perched on a toolbox. Cass hunched over her recorder and laptop, muttering notes. Elena dozed fitfully on a cot.

Todd sat alone by the open hangar door, bomber jacket pulled tight, watching the stars.

Cass’s voice broke the silence. “You don’t talk much.”

Todd didn’t look back. “Not much to say.”

“You lost someone.”

Todd’s shoulders stiffened.

Cass pressed gently. “Wife? Kids?”

“Both,” Todd said, voice low. “Five years back. Car wreck. Drunk driver walked away without a scratch.”

Cass went quiet. She closed her recorder; her usual sharpness dimmed. “I’m sorry.”

Todd finally turned. “Don’t be. Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”

Elena stirred, mumbling in her sleep. Todd’s gaze softened. “But maybe… maybe protecting her does.”

Cass studied him. For the first time, she saw the man under the silence—not just a mechanic hiding in grief, but someone waiting for a fight that mattered.

The lantern flickered. Outside, an owl screeched.

Neither of them noticed the thin curl of smoke rising from the treeline, a smoldering match left on the dirt—Caleb’s calling card.



The night air around the hangar had gone unnaturally still. No crickets, no rustle of wind in the scrub. Just silence.

Todd noticed first. Years in the service had tuned him to the absence of noise as much as its presence. He rose from his chair by the door, scanning the darkness.

“Cass,” he said quietly.

She looked up from her laptop, caught the tone in his voice, and immediately snapped it shut. “What is it?”

“Something’s wrong.”

Before she could answer, Elena’s voice cut through the quiet, trembling. “He’s here.”

Cass moved to the lantern, ready to douse it. Todd motioned her still. His hand slid under his jacket, fingers closing around the wrench he’d kept holstered like a sidearm all these years.

Out in the scrub, gravel crunched. Then a voice carried, low and deliberate.

“Todd Vance. Always thought you’d die behind an engine block, not in a tin shed.”

Caleb.

Todd’s pulse hammered, but he kept his stance wide, voice steady. “You’ve got one chance, Voss. Walk away.”

A chuckle. “That’s not how this works. You’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Elena’s breath hitched. Cass stepped closer to her, one hand protectively on the girl’s shoulder.

The hangar door rattled. A shadow shifted against the steel. Then another. Not just Caleb. Ellison had sent men.

Todd muttered, “Two outside, maybe three. Armed.”

Cass whispered back, “What do we do?”

“Survive,” Todd said.



The first strike came fast. The side door burst open, a boot slamming it wide. A figure in dark clothing lunged inside with a flashlight beam cutting across the room.

Todd moved without thinking. He swung the wrench, the crack echoing like a gunshot. The man dropped hard, light scattering across the floor.

“Move!” Todd barked.

Cass grabbed Elena’s hand, pulling her toward the back of the hangar.

Gunfire erupted. Bullets punched holes through sheet metal, sparks dancing off tools. Elena screamed, but Cass yanked her down behind a workbench.

Todd hit the ground, rolling behind a stack of crates. He shouted over the din. “Cass! Get her to the plane!”

“You can’t fly that thing!”

“Watch me!”



Outside, Caleb advanced steadily and deliberately, his rifle raised. He didn’t fire—yet. He wanted to herd them, make them desperate. Fear was his favorite weapon.

Ellison hung back by his cruiser, sweating under the brim of his hat. “This is messy,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette. “Voss, keep it clean.”

But Caleb ignored him, eyes locked on the hangar. This wasn’t about clean. This was about control.



Inside, Todd scrambled to the Cessna. Dust choked his throat as he ripped the tarp free.

The plane was old, neglected. But the systems, the systems —Todd knew them better than his heartbeat. He flipped the master switch. Power stuttered to life, instruments glowing faintly.

Cass shoved Elena into the copilot seat. “Buckle in!”

“Are you insane?” she hissed at Todd.

“Trust me,” he said. “This bird still has wings.”

Cass slid into the back, fumbling with her recorder. Even now, she documented. Her hands shook, but her eyes were hard.



The hangar door groaned, then began to roll open.

Caleb stood framed in the moonlight, silhouette massive, weapon steady.

“Game over,” he called.

Todd slammed the throttle forward. The Cessna’s prop roared, blasting dust and debris.

The hangar filled with chaos—papers flying, tools clattering, Caleb shielding his eyes as the plane lurched forward.

Gunfire erupted again, bullets sparking off the fuselage. Elena screamed. Todd’s grip tightened. “Hold on!”

The plane surged, bounced once on the cracked concrete, then smashed through the half-open hangar doors. Metal screeched, folding like paper as they burst into the night.



Behind them, Caleb lowered his weapon, lips curling into a cold smile.

“Run all you want, Vance,” he muttered. “There’s only one way this ends.”

Beside him, Ellison cursed, cigarette trembling in his fingers. “You’re gonna bring the whole state down on us.”

Caleb didn’t answer. His eyes tracked the plane as it clawed for the sky, engine straining.

This wasn’t finished.

Not by a long shot.



Resolution

The Cessna groaned as it clawed its way against the night sky, its engine coughing with age. Todd wrestled the yoke, sweat pouring down his temple. The gauges flickered red.

“Come on, girl,” he muttered, as if sheer will could keep the old bird flying.

Beside him, Elena gripped the flash drive in her fist, knuckles white. “It’s going to fall, isn’t it?”

Todd glanced at her, voice firm. “Not while I’m in this seat.”

Cass, in the back, braced herself against the rattling frame, recorder jammed in her pocket. “Todd—where do we even go?”

He scanned the horizon. The town’s lights burned faintly in the distance. And just beyond, the small county airstrip. Runway lights still glowing.

“Home,” Todd said.



Down on the highway, Caleb Voss was already moving. He’d commandeered Ellison’s cruiser, blue lights off, siren cut. Tires screamed as he pushed it hard toward the airfield. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the speck of the plane above.

Ellison, slumped in the passenger seat, lit another cigarette with shaking hands. “You’re insane. Whole county’ll see this.”

Caleb’s voice was low, cold. “Then we finish it before they do.”



The Cessna limped toward the runway, one wing dipping dangerously. Todd fought it steadily, every nerve in his body alive.

“Seatbelts tight!” he barked.

The wheels slammed asphalt, bouncing once—twice—before skidding hard. The old plane screeched, fishtailed, then shuddered to a stop at the far end of the strip.

Todd exhaled raggedly. “We’re down.”

But headlights cut across the tarmac before relief could settle. The cruiser barreled toward them.

Elena’s voice cracked. “It’s him.”



The Final Standoff

Todd shoved the door open, wrench in hand. Cass slid out behind him, the recorder ready but now useless. Elena stayed in the seat, trembling, but her grip on the flash drive tightened.

Caleb stepped out of the cruiser, rifle cradled casually, as if the outcome was already written. His scar caught the runway light, a jagged line of shadow.

“End of the road, Vance,” he said. “Hand over the girl.”

Todd squared his shoulders. “Not happening.”

Caleb tilted his head, amused. “You think you can stop me with a wrench?”

Todd gave a grim smile. “Worked once already.”

The words barely left his mouth before gunfire cracked. Cass dove, dragging Elena behind the wheel well. Todd charged, closing the distance. The rifle barked again, a bullet sparking off concrete inches away.

Then the fight collapsed into close quarters—Todd’s wrench against Caleb’s brute force. Steel rang, fists landed. Caleb was stronger, trained to break men. Todd was older, slower—but every blow he threw carried five years of grief and guilt.

Caleb slammed him against the plane’s fuselage, forearm at his throat. “You’re done,” he growled.

A click snapped behind him.

Cass, breath ragged, stood with Ellison’s fallen sidearm leveled. “Step away,” she ordered.

Caleb froze, a smirk tugging at his scar. “You won’t do it.”

Cass’s hands shook. For a second, doubt wavered. Then Elena’s voice broke through the dark.

“He’s wrong. Don’t let him take me back.”

Cass’s eyes hardened. She fired.

The shot rang out, echoing across the airfield. Caleb staggered, shock flashing in his eyes before he crumpled to the asphalt.

Silence fell.



Ellison tried to crawl from the cruiser, babbling excuses, hands raised. Sirens wailed in the distance now—real police this time, drawn by the chaos.

Cass strode to him, recorder raised. “Every word you say will bury you deeper, Sergeant.”

He sagged, defeated.

Within minutes, flashing lights painted the runway. Deputies swarmed. They started taking evidence, men were cuffed, and the nightmare that had thrived in silence was dragged into the open.



Dawn crept over the airstrip, painting the wrecked plane in soft light. Todd sat on the bumper of an ambulance, stitches running along his cheek. Elena stood nearby, wrapped in a blanket, the flash drive clutched like a talisman.

Cass clicked off her recorder, slipping it into her pocket. “The story will run by morning,” she said quietly. “Names, evidence, all of it.”

Todd glanced at Elena. “You don’t have to be in it if you don’t want to.”

For the first time, Elena lifted her chin, eyes steady. “I do. People need to know what they did. And that I survived.”

Todd’s chest tightened—pride, grief, something he hadn’t felt in years. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Then we’ll make sure they do.”

Cass smiled faintly, weary but fierce. “Together.”



Weeks later, headlines blazed across newspapers and feeds: *“Trafficking Ring Exposed in Wynnewood—Police Sergeant Among Those Arrested.”*

Cass’s article became the touchstone for a larger investigation. Survivors stepped forward. Communities demanded reform.

Todd’s shop reopened, tools lined in neat rows again—but now, there was laughter in the garage, Elena’s voice carrying as she learned to work beside him.

Cass moved her files from under the bed to a new office, one she now shared with others, no longer carrying the weight alone.

And Elena—no longer Maya, no longer just a survivor—stood at a podium at a community meeting, voice shaking but firm.

“My name is Elena Ruiz,” she said. “And I am not afraid anymore.”

The crowd rose to their feet.

Todd, standing in the back, felt something loosen in his chest. For the first time in five years, he wasn’t just living—he was alive.







Note ▼

AI tools, including Grammarly and ProWritingAid, were utilized to assist with grammar and spell checking in the text.

ChatGPT was used to help brainstorm this story.