Page 54 of Her Redeemed Protector

The kid whirls around, eyes locking onto us for a split second. Then, as quickly as he spotted us, he vanishes into the underbrush, his phone aglow as he alerts his accomplice.

Out of nowhere, the unmistakable crack of gunfire shatters the stillness of the night. It’s coming from our right, at some distance. Chase slams the truck into reverse, his movements precise under pressure. He maneuvers us behind the scant protection offered by a cluster of trees. Once secured, he readies his rifle, affixing the night vision scope with practiced hands.

“Can you see them?” I scan the shadow-draped landscape through my NOD, the night vision enhancement aiding our search without piercing through solid barriers. We are effectively blind beyond these obstacles, our visibility dependent on the adversary making a visible move.

Chase’s response comes through clenched teeth. “I’ll find them.”

Almost on cue, a bullet shears the air, missing ourmakeshift shelter by mere inches, sending a jarring clang against the truck’s frame.

“There! House across the creek, on the balcony,” Chase announces, his eye glued to the scope, tracking the source of the gunfire.

But it’s another sight that captures my full attention. A small figure trapped in the burning attic window. “It’s her! It’s Kayla!” I yell.

“Go! I’ve got this covered!” Chase bellows, readying himself to return fire.

“Kayla!” Her name rips from my throat as I sprint toward the house, using an old tractor as my shield from the spray of bullets.

Her scream cuts the night, sharp and desperate. Kayla’s life is on the line, the fire her executioner. Chase keeps our pursuers at bay, giving me the precious seconds I need. I reach the front door, heart pounding. The ground floor is mercifully untouched by flames, but the smoke is a blinding, choking veil.

“Chase! Call 911!” I command over the phone.

“Radio. The enemies seem to have retreated, heard a few vehicles leaving the area. They knew they wouldn’t be able to hold once the cavalry arrives.”

“Okay. When you’re sure it’s safe, call Savannah!” My orders are sharp.

I barrel up the stairs into the attic through heat that fights like a living thing.

And there, in the middle of the maelstrom, is Kayla. Terrified, tiny, and alive.

I ground myself, refusing to let the haunting visions of Operation Jaguar Strike blind me. It was a time when deadly heat and tragedy converged, a moment that changed my lifeforever. But this is the present, the here and now, and a child’s life depends on me.

“Kayla, stay there. I’m coming!” I shout.

“Please…” Her voice is a whisper against the roar.

The attic is an inferno with flames that claw and leap with feral intensity. The structure groans and spits, the wooden beams crackling like the bones of the house itself giving way under the assault. Kayla is there, huddled in the corner, her wide eyes reflecting the blaze that rages around her.

“Please help me…” A feather of sound, nearly lost in the cacophony of destruction.

I lunge toward her, feeling the intense heat lash my face. With a desperate heave, I drag Kayla into the scant shelter of my body, pressing her head against my chest and covering her with my jacket. It’s wool, and I hope it’ll provide her with some protection against the fire.

The smoke roils around us. With Kayla encased in my arms, I dodge a falling beam, feeling its searing kiss graze my arm as we pass. Another chunk of the ceiling succumbs. The exit seems an eternity away through the blinding, choking smoke.

“Hold on, Kayla!” I command, more for my sake than hers. Her tiny hands clutch at me, her trust in me complete and absolute at this moment. Her body trembles, not just from the heat but from the overwhelming terror of a child facing something too large, too fierce to understand.

Another beam collapses, and Kayla whimpers, her face buried against me, crying into the fabric of my clothes. My lungs scream for air as we navigate the gauntlet.

Then, at last, the night air hits us, a sweet, cold slap of reality. We’re out.

The house continues to roar behind us, but Kayla is safewithin my arms, her breaths coming in shuddering gasps against my neck.

Her trust in me, a man who was a stranger just days before, is a weight and a privilege.

“You okay, Kayla?” My voice is a calm murmur. Her fingers cling to me. “We’re safe now, okay?” I tell her, trying to ease her shaking form.

Her eyes find mine, a silent search for reassurance. “I know you,” she whispers, recognition dawning.

“Yeah, you do. I’m Huxley, remember? From Savannah’s place. Are you hurt anywhere?” I scan her for injuries, my hands gentle but efficient.

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