Page 69 of My Secret Santa Clayton

“Anything from our man?” he asked.

“Nothing. He hasn't found the sister yet,” the other guy snarled, frustration clear in his voice.

I felt a chill run through me, but I kept my face neutral.

They were still hunting Mariah.

Rob's laugh was cold and sharp. “Well, when we get her back, we’ll finally have leverage.” He turned and looked at me, a sneer on his face. “Then, she’ll have no choice but to talk.”

THIRTY-TWO

Clay

My tires skidded on slush as I pushed the accelerator, climbing the mountain roads with an urgency that matched the pounding in my chest. I had Deputy Chris Langley on speed dial, and briefed him about the situation. His voice had been calm, but I knew better.

Hostage scenarios never ended with handshakes and smiles.

“Clay, you gotta keep your head,” Chris had said, his voice crackling through the speakers. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“Since when have I ever been rash?” I lied.

As I got closer to the address in Grace’s note, something caught my eye—a solitary shape on the roadside. My heart lurched. It was Grace's truck, unmistakable even in the dimming light. I slowed down, squinting through the windshield, trying to make sense of the scene.

“Damn it,” I muttered, realizing there was another vehicle behind hers, a black sedan that seemed to have sprouted from nowhere.

Two figures struggled between the vehicles. It took a moment for my brain to register—it wasn't Grace. It was Mariah, her facetwisted in pain and fear as she fought against someone I couldn't quite see.

I had to do something.

The wheels of my truck skidded on gravel as I whipped it behind the black sedan. I cut the engine, and the silence of the mountain air was a jarring contrast to the pounding in my chest. Mariah grappled with a burly figure, pain etched on her face. My hands clenched into fists, and I threw open the door.

“Mariah!” I barked, but she couldn't hear me over their scuffle.

I recognized the guy's twisted grin from my place, the same one who'd sabotaged Grace's tires. Time wasn't on our side; I knew I had to act fast. I lunged at him, feeling every muscle coil in readiness.

“Hey!” I roared, closing in.

He turned just in time to see my fist connect with his jaw. The impact sent a shock up my arm as he crumpled to the ground.

There was no satisfaction in it—only necessity.

The thug shook his head, trying to rise. I couldn't let him.

“Stay down!” I ground out between gritted teeth.

He swung a clumsy fist, more of a threat than an actual problem. I dodged it, my response immediate, relentless; another blow landed on his cheek with a dull thud. I heard cartilage crack under the strain, felt something primal surge through me.

The mountain, the cold, the danger…it all faded behind the red veil of rage.

“Clay!”

Mariah's scream ripped through the air. It was sharp, filled with a different kind of fear. I turned to see her hunched over, her hands clasped around her belly.

“Mariah, what's wrong?” I asked. “Did he hurt you?” My voice was rough, the anger still vibrating through it.

“The baby,” she gasped, her face contorted in pain. “It's coming.”

“Damn it,” I muttered. Panic clawed at me, but I pushed it back. Now wasn't the time. I needed to focus. I looked at Mariah, saw the resolve in her eyes even through the pain. She was one tough woman—tough like her sister, who I had to pray was still alive.

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