The Wife You Buried Is Back from Hell novel Chapter 1419

The mouth of the Ashford River.

Countless winding tributaries were hidden here, obscured by dense reeds that formed a massive green wall, entirely cutting off the chaos of the city.

Harold Chapman was huddled in the belly of a tiny fishing boat, wrapped in a coarse, mud-stained coat.

Gone was the arrogant billionaire in his bespoke Italian suits, but his predatory, venomous gaze remained completely undiminished under the dim glow of the boat's lantern.

The captain was a grizzled old fisherman, coerced by Harold's men with a small fortune and explicit threats against his family's lives.

Hunched over, the old man quietly pushed the bamboo pole through the water. He rowed agonizingly slowly, the pole barely disturbing the surface to prevent making even the slightest splash.

The wooden hull glided against the edge of the reeds. The leaves brushed against the boat with a faint rustle, blending with the gentle lap of the river to form the only sound in the dead of night.

Harold kept his eyes shut, but every muscle in his body was coiled tight. His ears strained to pick up any auditory clues in the darkness.

Since surviving the convoy ambush, he had spent three grueling days evading the relentless police dragnet before finally securing this ride to the border.

He knew perfectly well that Ashford was on a massive lockdown. Alex and law enforcement had undoubtedly smothered every legitimate exit with heavily armed units.

Only this obscure, unregulated waterway, navigated by an experienced local, offered him a sliver of hope to break out of the city.

"Boss, there's a checkpoint up ahead," the fisherman whispered, his voice shaking. He threw a terrified glance down at Harold. "The police gunboats patrol every thirty minutes. We have to wait for them to pass."

The old man had spent his life on this river and had seen plenty of dangerous men, but none like Harold.

Even stripped of his power and fleeing like a rat, the sheer malice radiating from the fugitive was enough to make the fisherman's blood run cold.

He knew getting past this checkpoint didn't mean he was in the clear. The border was a warzone in its own right.

Alex was a brilliant tactician. He'd definitely anticipated this escape route, meaning the border would be crawling with even more security than Ashford.

But he had no other option.

The country was no longer safe for him. With Alex hunting him down, a statewide manhunt, and a horde of former business rivals salivating for his head, he was a dead man walking.

Only by crossing the border and returning to his offshore syndicates could he rebuild his empire. Only then could he unleash absolute hell on Alex, Danielle, and every single bastard who had conspired against him.

Half an hour later, the low rumble of a police gunboat engine drifted across the water. It grew louder, passed by, and eventually faded into silence.

The fisherman peeked his head out, confirming the coast was clear. Desperate to be done with this nightmare, he forcefully shoved the pole into the mud and rowed the boat out of the reeds, making a beeline for the border crossing.