Page 87 of Beneath the Surface

Brad’s pulse quickened as he opened the laptop and looked at her family. “Does anyone know her sign-on?”

Ruth stepped forward without hesitation, her fingers flying over the keys. “We’re all each other’s backup,” she murmured. The screen unlocked, and the room seemed to pause as Brad began to navigate through Isobel’s files.

Her meticulous record-keeping greeted him immediately, the documents as detailed as he’d come to expect. He openedone and felt a jolt—it was a summary of her conversation with Carter Brooks. Then he saw a list of searches: public home and tax records for Malcolm Hale and Phineas Phillips.

“She was tracking him.” Brad turned the laptop toward Ethan and Alex. “Look at this. She was onto something.”

Larson was already on the phone, his tone clipped as he spoke to contacts in Los Angeles. Minutes later, he hung up, his expression grim. “There’s a property in Hollywood Hills under Phineas Phillips’ name. The tax records on the property gave us a social security number.”

Alex and Ethan immediately dove into their databases, cross-referencing the information. As the hours crawled by, dawn broke on the third day since Isobel was taken. And then, finally, they had it: an address, 100 miles south of Pierre, belonging to a Phineas Phillips.

Brad stared at the image on the screen—a sprawling mansion renovated to look like a medieval castle. The drone footage provided by District HPB in Pierre showed a gray Toyota Corolla parked in the circular driveway.

“That’s it,” Brad said, his voice steely. “That’s where she is.”

Ethan dispatched the FBI’s Hostage Recovery Team immediately. Brad, John, Alex, Ethan, and Olivia armed themselves and headed to the location, their determination palpable. Time was no longer their ally—it was their enemy.

A helicopter ride later,they touched down on the outskirts of the castle just after sunset. The mansion loomed ahead, its towering stone façade shrouded in darkness and shadow. The gothic spires and battlements seemed almost surreal, like afortress ripped from another time. But this was no fairy tale. This was hell, and Isobel was trapped inside it.

The team moved in silence, their tactical gear blending into the night. The Hostage Recovery Team led the approach, their movements precise and methodical. They breached the wrought iron gates, and the eerie stillness of the grounds sent a chill down Brad’s spine.

They split into two-person teams, each group assigned a quadrant of the sprawling mansion. Brad and Larson headed toward the basement entrance, their weapons drawn and senses sharp. The castle’s interior was a labyrinth of stone corridors, the air thick with dampness and the faint stench of decay.

“Clear,” Larson whispered as he swept one room.

“Clear.” Brad swept another. The muffled sound of footsteps echoed faintly above them—others moving through the upper levels. But Brad’s focus was razor-sharp. He knew they were close.

As he and John descended the narrow staircase to the basement, the temperature dropped noticeably. The faint light cast long shadows on the stone walls, and Brad’s heart pounded as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Darkness filled a cutout against a wall. Brad froze as his eyes landed on Isobel. She was slumped against the wall, her wrists cuffed to a rusted pipe above her head. Blood streaked her forehead, and her breaths came in shallow, uneven pants. The faint clink of the chain as she shifted her hands was the only sound in the oppressive silence.

“Isobel!” Brad’s voice cracked, his chest tightening at the sight of her. He took a step forward, but Hale’s voice stopped him cold.

“Ah-ah-ah.” Hale emerged from the shadows, his knife gleaming under the dim light. “Not another step, Brad.” He stood between him and Isobel, blocking any potential shot.

Brad’s hands tightened around the hilt of his gun as he faced him. “Stay away from her, Hale.”

Hale tilted his head, his grin a mocking curve. “Stay away? After everything I’ve done to prove a point? I don’t think so.” He gestured toward Isobel with the knife. “You see, she’s the key. The proof that all your heroics are meaningless. People like her… they always break.”

Brad’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting back to Isobel. Her head lolled slightly, but her lips moved, whispering something too faint for him to hear. She was alive, barely hanging on.

“She didn’t break,” Brad said, his voice low and firm. “You tried, didn’t you? But she’s still here. Still fighting. She’s stronger than you could ever understand.”

Hale’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second before he masked it with a scoff. “Strong? Look at her. She’s a wreck, barely conscious. She’s exactly what I said she’d be—broken, dependent, powerless.”

Brad took a step closer, his voice hardening. “You don’t get it, do you? Every second she’s breathing, every second she refuses to give up, she’s disproving every twisted theory you have about power, control, and dominance.”

Hale’s eyes darkened, his grip on the knife tightening. “Don’t you dare lecture me.”

“Why not?” Brad snapped back. “You’re obsessed with control, but you’ll never have what she has—real strength. She’s everything you’ll never be… resilient, brave, and capable of standing on her own. You can’t take that from her.”

Hale’s face twisted in rage, and he lunged at Brad, the knife slashing through the air. Brad barely dodged, twisting to the side as the blade grazed his arm, his gun flying into the darkness. Pain flared, but he ignored it, his focus razor-sharp.

“Still preaching, Brad?” Hale growled, circling him like a predator. “Let’s see how strong you are when you’re bleeding out on the floor.”

“You talk too much,” Brad shot back, feinting to the right before swinging a punch that caught Hale in the jaw.

The impact sent Hale stumbling, but he recovered quickly, his knife darting out again. This time, Brad caught Hale’s wrist, twisting hard and slamming him into the wall.

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