Undercover Animal Specialist Exposed to $15 Million Hollywood Dynasty's Lethal Hunting Hounds Finds Betrayal, Mob Retribution, and Heartbreaking Loss on Georgia Celebrity Estate
The roar of approaching engines was now unmistakable, the sound growing louder with each passing second. Silas’s armed guards, or worse, Don Hector’s enforcers, would be here any minute.
“Thank you, Arlo,” I said, my voice thick with gratitude. I adjusted Caleb in my arms. He was fading, his breathing becoming more labored.
Arlo opened the passenger door of the old pickup truck. It smelled faintly of oil and pine. “Get him in,” he urged. “The road’s rough, but it’s the only way out undetected. It comes out near the old highway, by the diner.”
I carefully laid Caleb on the passenger seat, gently propping his head against a rolled-up blanket Arlo had foresightedly placed there. He moaned softly, his eyes still closed.
“What about you?” I asked Arlo, looking back at him.
He offered a grim smile. “I’ve got my own way out. I’ll make sure they don’t trace this truck back to me. Just go.”
I nodded, clutching the key Arlo handed me. I slid behind the wheel, the worn leather steering wheel feeling rough beneath my fingers. I started the engine. It sputtered once, then roared to life, a welcome sound of freedom.
“Be safe, Arlo,” I said, and then I put the truck in gear.
The old logging road was exactly as Arlo described: a barely-there track, overgrown with weeds and riddled with potholes. The truck bounced and swayed, jostling Caleb, who whimpered softly. I drove as fast as I dared, the branches slapping against the windows.
Behind us, the Holloway estate receded, disappearing into the dense Georgia woods. I could still hear the faint shouts and the distant blare of a siren, but they grew fainter with every mile.
After what felt like an eternity, the logging road finally spilled out onto a dusty, two-lane highway. A faded sign for “Mom’s Diner” was just ahead. Arlo had said it was near the diner.
I pulled into the gravel parking lot, the truck kicking up a cloud of white dust. Caleb needed medical attention, fast. This diner was a temporary reprieve, a place to collect my thoughts and figure out the next step.
I carefully lifted Caleb from the truck, his skin still alarmingly hot. He was lighter than ever. I had to get him to a real hospital, but I couldn’t risk going straight there without a plan. Silas and Julian had connections everywhere.
The diner was small and sparsely populated. A couple of truckers sat at the counter, nursing coffees. A waitress with tired eyes wiped down a booth. The smell of fried food hung heavy in the air.
I found an out-of-the-way booth in the corner, gently settling Caleb onto the vinyl seat, propping him up against the window. He was barely conscious.
“Water,” he croaked, his voice barely audible.
“I’ll get you some,” I promised, my heart aching.
As I stood to get water from the waitress, my eyes swept over the other patrons. My gaze snagged on a man sitting alone at a booth near the door. He had a scarred face and walked with a pronounced limp, his left leg noticeably shorter than his right.
He was meticulously organizing a stack of old ledger books and what looked like mini DV tapes. His back was mostly to me, but something about his posture, his focused intensity, caught my attention.
Then he turned slightly, reaching for a coffee cup. I saw his face more clearly. A jagged scar ran from his temple down to his jawline. A name clicked in my memory.
Wes Montgomery.
He was a legendary stunt double, famous for his daredevil motorcycle jumps. But a few years ago, he’d had a catastrophic “accident” on a Holloway set. The official story was equipment failure, but rumors had swirled about foul play, about insurance payouts, and Silas Holloway’s shady dealings. He’d been disgraced, crippled, and paid off.
And he was holding what looked like his personal accounting ledgers, along with a stack of old video tapes. My intuition screamed at me. These weren’t just personal records. These were evidence.
I walked toward his booth, my heart pounding. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
“Mr. Montgomery?” I said, my voice soft, but firm enough to get his attention.
He looked up, startled, his eyes, dark and wary, meeting mine. He quickly tried to cover the tapes with his hand.
“Do I know you?” he grunted, his voice raspy.
“No, but I know you,” I replied. “And I know about Silas Holloway.”
His body stiffened. His eyes narrowed. He looked past me, his gaze briefly landing on Caleb, slumped in the booth. A flicker of something – recognition, maybe sympathy – crossed his face.
“What about Holloway?” he asked, his voice now a low growl.
“He just tried to have me eaten by dogs, and he’s letting my sick brother die,” I told him, cutting straight to the truth. “He’s running an illegal operation, faking animal attacks, staging ‘accidents’ like yours, to collect insurance money. I believe you have the proof.”
His gaze locked onto mine, a silent calculation in his scarred eyes. He looked at Caleb again, his expression softening slightly.
“Those tapes,” I pressed, “they’re security footage, aren’t they? Footage of the real incidents? The ones that earned Holloway millions, and cost you your career?”
Wes Montgomery slowly pushed one of the tapes across the table. It was unlabeled, but the implication was clear. This was it. The missing piece of the puzzle.
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