Page 38 of Her Faithful Protector

His eyes flick to mine, a glint of something—appreciation, maybe—before he returns to the path ahead.

There are still a few miles left to kill, and after all, I started the conversation. Experience has taught me that sometimes, things left unsaid can be more distracting than those we let out. I concede, “All right, what happened in Colombia?”

He smirks, knowing the question burning in me. “We were in a jungle down south, extracting a CIA operative whose cover had been compromised. The intel was spotty—classic CIA’s spook style, keeping us in the dark on half the game.Two members of our team got seriously injured. Well, three if you count me.” He gestures to his face.

Now that he’s given me permission, I examine the deep scar.

He continues, “My face was hanging out, and my chest was a wall of shrapnel. But I suppose it wasn’t as bad for me since I didn’t lose any limbs. But you know, Jack. What shook me was the fact that I failed to protect someone. Even though technically, we rescued the only person we were tasked to bring home safely.” His confession hangs between us.

“An innocent victim?” I murmur.

“A very innocent victim,” he reveals. “I was shielding a two-year-old girl who was standing at the door just as the house behind her exploded. Her twin brother didn’t make it. We never knew they were kids in there.” He shakes his head. “My chief got court-martialed for what happened. It should’ve been the CIA’s asses.”

“That was fucked up.”

“Very fucked up. When I held that girl, I made a promise that when my Navy days were over, I’d dedicate the rest of my life to the well-being of children. I considered joining UNICEF, but I felt like I should start closer to home.”

“Well, it’s our gain.”

“You know, that girl. When she opened her eyes—” I catch a glimpse of a smile forming on his profile. “She held me tight and called me ‘Papa’ for some reason,” he shares, gripping the steering wheel tightly as if he’s reliving that moment. Then the smile fades, and he gulps. “I mean, we were the ones who took her father’s life, and I swear, I don’t look anything like that murderer. Honestly, with my messed-up face, I should’ve looked straight out of a horror flick.”

You don’t have to spend a lot of time with a guy to know what he’s like. Huxley may not be an open book, butunderneath his tough exterior, there’s a tender side to him. Considering he helped raise his younger brother, it’s no wonder the girl saw him as a father figure.

“Maybe you smelled like her old man,” I tease.

“He was a millionaire drug lord, so I’m sure his cologne was some top-notch Parisian product. Let’s see if Quinton calls me Papa.”

Now he’s getting cocky. “Don’t you fucking dare provoke him!” I warn. “Even if he says something that sounds like it, it won’t mean anything. Nothing that boy says to you is binding.”

“Yet the smell will linger,” Huxley jokes. “So what’s your story, Jack? You’re an active Marine. How come you’re here?”

“I’m on leave.”

“So you’re on duty while off duty?”

“Well, I thought it was my duty to be here. Until that thought got here.” I tap at my chest.

As if in sync, my senses heighten when we enter Townsend. Instead of heading toward the town center, we veer west, choosing a path leading to the farm area. Our objective perches on a slight elevation, a strategic vantage point that provides a clear view of the surroundings. This was why Willem’s men chose the house. If we drive further, even before they spot us, they’ll know fury is coming.

Determined to remain undetected, we opt to park in the recess of an alleyway concealed behind a row of mulberry trees. We proceed on foot, using the overgrown bushes along the road as our covers.

With our radio on, hooked to a headset each of us wears, we make our approach to the house from the rear. Upon first glance, the surroundings appear unchanged from yesterday.

Huxley and I split up, each of us conducting a quick survey of the exterior. My eyes flit from window to window, tracing the outlines of the structure. The glass remainscovered with newspaper from the inside, and the gap in the bedroom window is still there. As I peep in, my heart sinks like a stone in murky water.

There is absolutely nothing inside. The crib is gone, and the room is empty. I step onto the porch. The random junk is still there, but no sign of the baby stroller that was parked here when I came yesterday.

Huxley and I rendezvous at the back door. “It smells like a baby!” he whispers, unaware of the storm brewing inside my head. From the side he inspected, I don’t think he would’ve seen anything that reveals a baby is around. I can’t detect the scent from here, but I wish my partner were right. Perhaps it’s just a lingering scent that the group moved on not that long ago.

Convinced that the house is empty, we exchange a wordless glance. Slowly, I open the door, allowing Huxley to enter with a wide stride, his Glock firmly gripped in his hand, aimed forward. We search the house, finding no trace of anyone. Most rooms are empty and have been cleaned thoroughly. There are only the unmade beds in the bedrooms and a few furniture scattered around the living room.

“Fuck!” I gripe.

As I settle behind the cover of an old leather couch, Huxley positions himself beneath the window, keeping a vigilant watch on the outside.

I contact Sam. “Where are you?”

“I’m in position. Ava is almost here.”

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