Page 43 of Her Faithful Protector

The room falls into an eerie silence, but not for long. A shot rings out, emphatically signaling a turn of events. Almost simultaneously, I hear a thud next to my ear. The raccoon man sways toward me, his lifeless body sliding down against my shoulder and onto the floor. Sam’s bullet has found its mark in the man’s chest.

The captor holding me tightens his grip, one arm wrapped around my waist while the other keeps pressing the knife against my neck. My eyes widen in terror as he lifts me, using me to cover his face and upper body.

“Release her!” Sam orders. This is the first time I hear the Red Mark leader’s voice so low and menacing.

But my captor keeps dragging me back, his ragged breath blowing against my nape. I struggle to inhale as the tight grip restricts my chest, trying to release the fear that fills me.

Sam stands still in the doorway, blocking any escape route.

My captor warns Sam, “I’ve been given permission to kill her.” I feel the blade dig deeper into my skin. I take it as a sign of desperation—he knows he’s trapped, and I’m his only leverage. “She’ll just be collateral damage.”

But Sam doesn’t wait, rapidly changing his aim and firing low, hitting the man’s foot. A scream escapes my captor as he releases me. Seizing the opportunity, I duck and sprint towardSam, seeking safety. As he shields me, Sam takes another shot, ending the man’s life.

“Ava, Ava, are you all right?” I hear Sam’s worried voice, his grip steadying me as I struggle to regain my balance.

“I’m fine, Sam,” I pant. “But Quinton isn’t here. Did you hear anything from Jack?”

The silence that follows fills me with unease. I’m too afraid to ask again, so I simply watch him slipping off his jacket, draping it over my tattered shirt. He then guides me toward the front of the house. The wide-open door invites a rush of air and the distant sound of a revving motorcycle.

Sam lets out a growl, clearly displeased that the bearded man has managed to escape. But he looks at me, offering a reassuring nod. I know that I am his top priority. “Come on, let’s go,” he urges me forward.

We run toward my car parked outside the fence, but the tires have been slashed. We have no choice but to head toward Sam’s car, which was left in a spot away from the house.

Adrenaline fuels our steps, and I finally see his car, hidden behind a dense thicket of bushes. Sam remains vigilant, constantly scanning our surroundings, ready to defend us if anyone should approach. We jump in without wasting a second, and he floors the accelerator.

“Please call Jack,” I beg. “You haven’t heard from him, have you?”

“No, not yet, but we will soon,” he mumbles, his eyes scanning the surroundings. “We’re heading to Townsend now.”

I gaze at him, silently urging him to make the call to Jack.

“Ava, I haven’t heard from him, but that doesn’t mean something bad has happened. My headset went haywire earlier, around the time you got close to whatever was making that crying sound.”

Ah, that digital speaker. It wouldn’t surprise me if Willemhad designed it using some sort of voice cloner. It sounded exactly like Quinton’s cry. So real, as if he was in the room.

“I’m sorry,” I sigh, feeling guilty for potentially causing the disturbance.

“Hey, don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault.” Sam grips the steering wheel with one hand while his other hand adjusts his radio.

Around the corner, a familiar figure catches our attention. It’s my former babysitter, Greta Hall, running along the road like a fugitive. The woman showed nothing but trustworthiness, order, and gentleness when she first introduced herself. I can’t believe she’s capable of doing this. But that’s the nature of humanity—it can both amaze and shock you.

Sam slams on the brakes and swerves to the right, blocking her path. As soon as the car comes to a halt, I step out.

“Ava, wait!” Sam yells.

I march on. It doesn’t take much to corner her. Her face is flushed, and her legs wobble. It looks like she’s been running for a while. The image of her caring for my baby, as if she were his real mother, ignites a surge of anger within me.

I throw a punch, my knuckles landing on her nose. Then I push her to the ground.

“Where’s my baby?” I shout at her.

She cries out helplessly, then pleads, “Miss West, I can explain…”

“Where’s my baby!” My fury intensifies, and I raise my leg, ready to stomp on her pitiful face.

Sam intervenes, stopping me in my tracks.

“Step away, Sam! This is between me and her!” I protest, my anger directed solely at Greta.

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