Page 10 of Her Redeemed Protector

“No contact on my side. What’s your status?” I ask.

“No hit so far,” he responds.

“Rally at the next waypoint,” I say, my voice edged with frustration.

“Copy that,” he replies, and we both head to the final location, hoping this will be the one—a bit further from the water and more secluded than the others.

Jack’s car is now behind me. At the start of a trail, we stop.

“We should park here and continue on foot,” I suggest. “If Lance Anderson is out there, let’s surprise him.”

Immediately, we see tire marks that, at a glance, matchLance Anderson’s truck. The edges are still crisp and undisturbed by weather or foot traffic. This could be it. I put Mono the elephant in my bag, ready to present it to Bethany when the moment is right.

We trek along the damp, uneven path, following the tire tracks. After several miles, the weathered exterior of the cottage emerges, nearly camouflaged by its surroundings. The windows are dark, and there’s no sign of movement. With our guns ready, we advance.

On my count, we storm inside. The door swings open with a loud creak but offers no resistance. My eyes sweep across the room—a sparse, single space with minimal furnishings devoid of any personal belongings.

Jack places a hand on the stove burner. “Still warm,” he says.

I kick aside a few chairs and makeshift tables cobbled together from crates, searching for anything hidden. There’s nothing—until I spot a trash can.

“Someone’s been eating here,” I remark, nodding at the ramen packaging and soda cans inside. DNA scans would be helpful, but we don’t have the time.

“What’s that?” Jack exclaims, pointing to a plastic spoon that’s sturdier than your typical takeout utensil. He picks it up and finds Barbie’s face smiling at us from the handle.

“Could be Bethany’s,” Jack says. “I’ll check with Mrs. Anderson.”

My partner quickly snaps a photo of the spoon and sends it in a text. Moments later, he calls Mrs. Anderson, and I can hear her frantic voice leaking through the phone. As soon as Jack hangs up, he relays the information. “It’s Bethany’s.”

The confirmation sends a surge of adrenaline through me. This place was more than just a hideout. It was where Bethanyhad been. I pull out my phone and call Captain Zander, our contact at the Helena PD.

“Good work, Hux,” Zander says. “Hang tight. I’ll coordinate with the sheriff.”

Jack and I turn our attention to the back door, which leads us to a steep slope leading to a narrow path that snakes through the trees toward the river.

“Could they have taken a boat?” Jack asks.

Not dismissing the possibility, we follow the path. Unlike the beaten trail full of fresh tire marks, this trail is covered in a thin layer of fallen leaves, indicating inactivity. But when we arrive at a fork, where the mud is slightly thicker, we notice footprints. Small ones.

“She escaped!” I exclaim to Jack, pointing out the lack of adult prints. Bethany is a small girl. Perhaps her steps were too light to visibly mark the main trail.

We follow the footprints inland in a rush of urgency.

“There’s a farm just up ahead,” Jack notes, glancing at his map.

My heart pounds as if signaling that’s the way. “If she made it that far, she might have found shelter there.”

We quicken our pace as we navigate the path, now strewn with loose stones and tangled roots. As an ex-Marine and an ex-SEAL, we make light work of the uneven terrain. If Bethany truly took this route, she’s managed remarkably well.

As we advance, our eyes stay alert, not just for hazards but also in keen search for any trace of her. The scent of the farm begins to permeate the air. We’re close!

4

SAVANNAH

The man who’s been calling out for his daughter finally comes into view, pacing in front of the open barn door. He’s solidly built, his frame exuding intimidation even from a distance.

“You’re a good girl, right, Bethany?” The sound of his voice is like ice water down my neck.

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