Page 42 of Her Faithful Protector

“Stop!” I yell. “Hand over the baby, and I swear I’ll let you go!”

But the woman refuses to give in. I continue chasing after her. Knowing it’s a matter of time before I catch her, in panic, she releases the stroller. At this time, the crying has stopped. If she has harmed Quinton in any way, I swear I will take matters into my own hands and end her.

As we race a downhill slope, the stroller becomes a runaway train, heading straight for a creek! The babysitter runs in the opposite direction, but I pay her no mind. My focus is on the stroller’s path.

From where I am, I can see Quinton’s legs hanging out. He’s slipping through the straps! I could jump and reach for the stroller’s handles, but abruptly stopping it might make Quinton fly out. In a split second, I leap over the stroller, using my body to cushion its impact and ensure Quinton doesn’t fall on the rocky ground. My shoulder takes the brunt of the fall, but Quinton escapes the tumbling stroller and lands safely in my arms.

My heart races, sweat covers my face. When I look down, I’m met with Quinton’s scrutiny. I’m certain he’s on the verge of crying.

“Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe. You’re safe.” I cradle him.

The baby wriggles—not in distress but driven by curiosity. I loosen my hold, and he reaches for my Ray-Ban sunglasses, nudging them up to let him peek at my eyes. He giggles as if I was the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “Po po po,” he babbles.

I gently pat him all over to ensure he’s not injured. It’s my first time holding a baby, but his joyful expression and ability to move freely assure me he’s in good health.

With sweat oiling my nose, my sunglasses slip down. When I lift them, Quinton laughs even harder, repeating, “Po po po!”

“I don’t know what you’re saying, baby. But I’m glad you like me.”

The pain throbbing in my shoulder, possibly dislocated, is forgotten as his laughter numbs the ache. The stroller lies overturned by the edge of the creek, its wheels spinning lazily. I retrieve a blanket from it, wrapping Quinton snugly to shield him from the breeze.

I remain on high alert, scanning the surroundings for any sign of Willem’s men, but all I see are leaves rustling in the wind.

Adjusting my headset, I pique Quinton’s curiosity, his tiny fingers reaching for the microphone as if eager to join the conversation. “Sam, I’ve got him. I’ve got Quinton,” I announce, my voice crackling through the static-filled radio. Unsure if anyone can hear me, I persevere, determined to keep them informed.

Quinton eagerly sinks his teeth into the microphone’s rubbery tip. I pull it away from him. “You need that giraffe teether, don’t you?” I remark, a hint of amusement in my voice. I urge him to speak. “Say Mama.”

“Mo.”

“Mo? Are you calling Elmo?”

“Mo!”

I chuckle. The bond between Quinton and Elmo must be strong, perhaps even rivaling Ava’s position as his number one. “Don’t worry, and I won’t tell her,” I quip.

Leaning back against the trunk of an elm tree, I take a moment to catch my breath. Quinton crawls along my lap, his grip surprisingly strong. Perhaps he sees me as nothing more than a mattress. I slide down, making myself as flat as I can, allowing him to reach the top of me. His tiny hands brush against my Ray-Bans, eliciting laughter as I play peek-a-boowith him. If this was a military operation, it’d be by far the best debrief I’ve had.

Amid Quinton’s innocent laughter, reality sinks in. I have fulfilled my promise. Now, all I need is the safe return of Ava and Sam.

15

AVA

Staring at the doll in the crib, my shoulders slump, and my body teeters on the brink of surrender. I’ve fallen for Willem’s ruse. All I can hope for is that my baby is in Townsend, just as Jack has believed from the beginning.

Among the mocking laughter from the men, I realize that my hasty move to check the crib has caused my earpiece to slip.

The raccoon man yanks me away from the crib, eyeballing the bean-shaped object resting on the mattress. He pushes me into a corner. In his rage, his hands tear through my shirt, uncovering the microphone taped to my bra. “You’re fucking wired?” he growls, crushing the device beneath his boot.

Where is Sam? I thought he was coming in.

Seeing what’s unfolding, the bearded man collects the speaker-like equipment emitting Quinton’s fake cry. “Kill her!” he orders and then disappears from the room.

Suddenly, a loud crack echoes from the back of the house. It’s Sam. He has deliberately chosen the rear entry, likely aware of our presence and the fortified front door.

I maneuver past my two captors, only to be stopped bythe one who had been standing by the crib. With an iron grip, he grabs me, using my panicked body as a shield. The knife he had waved earlier is now pressed against my neck. He used it to threaten fake Quinton, but the weapon is anything but fake. Its steely blade grazes my skin while I watch the raccoon man aiming his gun at Sam, his finger poised on the trigger.

My neck tenses, pressing against the sharp edge of the knife. I feel a distinct line breaking on my skin, a sharp, stinging sensation that causes me to squeeze my eyes shut.

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