Page 34 of Hero's Heart

“My mom always called me angel,” she whispered.

“I can see why.” His smile changed the appearance of his whole face. “We need to get going. You ready?”

No.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded rusty and broken. She couldn’t even imagine what she looked like.

“Good girl. You’re doing amazing.”

She didn’t feel like she was doing amazing. She felt like she was one breath away from a complete breakdown she might never recover from. But she got up, ate a few more bites of the meal bar he put in her hands and washed it down with rainwater he’d somehow collected in a giant leaf.

A few hours and many miles later, she wasn’t feeling any better. Her feet moved mechanically, one in front of the other, as if she was on autopilot. The world around her seemed hazy and distant, like she was watching her own body from a distance.

“We’re in Moldova.” Callum’s steady voice pierced through the fog in her mind. “It’s a small country between Romania and Ukraine.”

She blinked, trying to focus. “Moldova?” she repeated, her voice hoarse from disuse. “I don’t think I could find it on a map.”

A ghost of a smile touched Callum’s lips. “Not many people could. It’s not exactly a tourist hot spot.”

Their feet crunched along a dirt road flanked by dense forests, the oppressive quiet broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. Callum had been talking to her periodically through the miles. Pulling her back from the emptiness her mind kept trying to sweep her toward.

Callum had told her how he and his team had gotten here due to a call from an old law enforcement colleague—someone who worked for William Getty—asking for assistance.

Callum told her what he knew about Jakob and Nikola Kozak. Evidently, they were two brothers who specialized in watching social media feeds and kidnapping and ransoming trust-fund babies. Marissa had been their perfect victim. Sloane had just been an unfortunate bystander.

Sloane had listened to all the info about her own kidnapping with a detached interest. Almost like she was reading about it in a newspaper rather than having survived it herself.

She was much more interested in what Callum had told her about his personal life. Those details were what really kept her in the present.

That he wasn’t married and was a sheriff in a town called Oak River or something in Wyoming. She liked his stories about his friends at a place called Linear Tactical—a company made up of two generations of heroes. How everyone in the area took care of one another.

It sounded magical to Sloane.

They passed multiple towns, but Callum hadn’t wanted to stop in case any of the Kozak brothers’ men were looking for them there. It was almost dusk when the small town Callum decided they would stop at came into view.

Sloane picked up speed. All she wanted to do was get somewhere she could shower. She prayed that was part of the plan but didn’t want to seem like she was complaining by asking.

But Callum had stopped and was staring at a farmhouse far on the outskirts of the village.

“Are we not going into town?”

He looked at her then down at his own clothes. “We need to change. Like this, we’re a walking target.”

Sloane glanced down at herself. Her dress had been bad enough at the club a few nights ago. Now, it was dried stiff with blood and dirt. A wave of discomfort rippled through her. He was right.

He pointed to the backyard of the house they were walking by, where a clothesline sagged under the weight of freshly washed garments swaying in the evening breeze. “That’s our ticket right there. We’re going to grab them.”

“We’re going to steal clothes?”

“Yep.”

He was already moving, crouching low and weaving through the shadows cast by the setting sun. Sloane hesitated only a moment before following, the need to find something different to wear stronger than any moral compunction about taking the clothes.

Maybe she could ask him what town they were in and find a way to send money to these people once she made it home.

She reached the clothesline and grabbed a simple cotton dress, the soft fabric almost surreal against her grime-covered fingers. Nearby, Callum pulled on a pair of faded trousers and a loose shirt, his movements quick and efficient.

“Hang on,” he whispered, rushing over to the house. What was he doing?

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