Page 103 of Her Redeemed Protector

“I should’ve killed you!” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Yeah, but you missed. Not my fault,” he sneers.

“Have you sent our demands to Fabian yet?” Juliet turns to him, her tone impatient.

“The courier’s already on his way, darling,” he responds smoothly.

Juliet clearly intends to use the supposed paternity of Fabian’s child as leverage. My best chance at survival is to play along, telling her what she wants to hear while quietly probing for any weakness in her control. I watch as she and The Hog converse discreetly, trying to discern any crack that could be my ticket out of this high-stakes game of deception and survival.

41

HUXLEY

Misty moves with a sense of purpose, her hooves crunching against the earth as we plunge deeper into the wilderness. The moon casts scant light through the dense canopy above, yet Misty navigates the terrain with an uncanny ease that only a horse could possess in such darkness.

The night air is sharp against my skin, somewhat tempering the heat of anxiety building up in me. Misty’s steady trot picks up as if she senses something. I trust her instincts, leaning into her rhythm, letting her lead me through what I hope is a shortcut to where Savannah might be.

Now, the trail becomes less distinct, and I know we’re venturing into areas seldom touched by human presence. It’s both exhilarating and daunting, knowing that each step brings us closer to potentially dangerous territory.

I flick open the sat phone to reconnect with Chase. The situation’s evolved, and it’s critical we coordinate our next moves.

“Chase, rendezvous at grid reference—old Mitchell Ranch. It’s an isolated spot, but GPS should have fidelity on the coordinates.”

“Copy that,” Chase’s response crackles through the static, his tone resolute. “I’ll set up at the ranch. What’s your ETA?”

“Unclear,” I reply, eyes scanning the densely clouded sky visible through the forest canopy. “I’m cutting through on a shortcut. Terrain is hostile, but the mount is holding up.”

Chase’s voice betrays a hint of amusement. “Mount?”

He isn’t privy to the full picture yet. “Yes, partner, I’m mounted. It’s Savannah’s horse. Her name’s Misty.”

The man chuckles. “This scenario is squarely in your deckhouse, Comet. Seems like all those years, ranching was prepping you for this op.”

“Counting on that, Chase. I’m inbound from the east—it’s forest all the way. Your best approach is via the old front entrance. Anticipate compromised pathways,” I instruct, ensuring the details are clear.

“Understood,” he confirms.

“Keep your comms open as long as you can. I’ll reconnect ASAP.”

“Be safe. We’ll find her, Comet.”

Misty and I press on, mile after relentless mile. She weaves through trees and over streams with precision. I’m aware of the risks—of wildlife, of getting lost, of running into whoever might be holding Savannah. But I have no option but to confront them as they come.

I glance at my compass. The mare is unerringly headed toward the ranch. There’s a drive in her pace, her hooves finding purchase on the mossy earth. The deeper we go, the more I rely on her vision and instincts as my flashlight fades into insignificance. She knows this land, and her intuition about Savannah’s location feels almost supernatural.

We make our way through the clearing, finally reaching the ranch.

I trade my flashlight for my Glock as we slip past thedilapidated fences that no longer serve their purpose. The outlines of discarded farm equipment are visible, strewn haphazardly across the overgrown land like relics of a forgotten time. The place exudes a sense of desolation, tangible even in the dim light. This ranch, once a vibrant home brimming with life and Savannah’s pride, now lies lifeless, its potential unfulfilled. A distance away, there’s an abandoned crater, a remnant from a big project that never got off the ground.

Misty’s muscles tense beneath me. My own senses sharpen, every sound and movement magnified in the eerie stillness. The probability that Savannah’s captors are prepared for a quiet intrusion seems unlikely. They would anticipate the roar of an engine, not the stealthy padding of hooves.

The vast expanse of the ranch stretches around us, and cold sweat coats my neck. Savannah could be anywhere! I lower my voice to a near-silent whisper, my words directed at Misty, “Lead the way, Misty. We need to find Savannah.”

Misty moves, her steps sure even in the uncertain light. As we move, the foliage thins, and a well-defined path emerges. I pause to scan the ground, my flashlight beam illuminating numerous motorcycle tracks crisscrossing the dirt. The decision is swift—dismount. The risk of exposure is too great, and Misty’s white coat could make her an easy target.

Securing her to an oak tree, protected by its generous shadow, I whisper reassurances. My hand rests briefly on her neck. “Stay here. I’ll bring her back.”

Transitioning to foot, I adopt a low, agile posture, moving stealthily from one cover to the next, whether it be derelict farm equipment, crumbling walls, or dense tree lines. Each step brings me closer to the ranch’s core, the likely location of Savannah.

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