Page 88 of Beneath the Surface

“You’re losing, Hale,” Brad spat, pressing his weight against him.

Hale snarled, driving a knee into Brad’s stomach. Brad staggered back, and Hale surged forward, his knife raised high. Behind them, Brad caught a glimpse of movement—Larson bursting into the room, gun drawn.

“Brad, DOWN!” Larson shouted, his voice sharp and commanding.

But before Larson could fire, Hale darted from the shadows and tackled Larson. The two crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Larson’s head slammed hard into the concrete, stunning him. His gun slipped from his grasp, sliding across the floor and coming to a stop near Isobel’s feet.

Brad’s heart thundered as Hale charged again. This time, Brad ducked low, slamming into Hale’s midsection and driving him into the ground. The knife clattered away, out of reach, but Hale shoved Brad off with a roar of fury.

“You’re just as pathetic as she is,” Hale spat, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “Fighting for scraps. Fighting for people who can’t even save themselves.”

Brad pushed himself to his feet, his breathing ragged. “That’s where you’re wrong, Hale. Isobel’s already saved herself. You just don’t know it yet.” He grabbed the pipe near Isobel. With a desperate yank, he bent the metal enough for her cuffed hands to slip free.

Hale charged them.

“Belle!” Brad shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. He turned to cut Hale off before he could reach her.

She fell forward, barely catching herself. Her trembling hands reached for the gun.

Hale saw her movement, his face contorting with rage. “No, you don’t—” he started, but before he could take another step, Isobel’s shaking hands lifted the gun. Her finger curled around the trigger.

“Brad, DOWN!” Larson yelled.

Brad dropped just as a gunshot rang out. The sound echoed in the stone room, followed by a stunned silence. Hale froze, his eyes wide with shock as blood bloomed on his chest. He staggered, his lips moving soundlessly before collapsing to the ground.

Brad scrambled toward Isobel as the gun slipped from her fingers. She sagged against the wall, her breathing shallow and uneven.

“Belle,” Brad said, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out, cradling her face in his hands. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy but filled with recognition.

“Brad…” she whispered, her voice faint but enough to steady him.

“I’m here,” he said softly, pulling her close. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Her lips twitched into the faintest smile before her eyes slid closed again. Brad tightened his hold on her, his gaze shifting briefly to Hale’s lifeless form on the ground.

Isobel had proven, once and for all, that Hale’s darkness couldn’t consume her light.

The wait wasinterminable as someone from the HRT fully freed her from her chains. Brad wrapped her in a blanket, refusing treatment for himself before he carried her out of the darkness.

Outside, the thrum of helicopter blades filled the air as an emergency medevac team landed on the grounds. Brad carried Isobel to the waiting aircraft, his grip steady despite the turmoil raging inside him.

“She’s alive,” he told the medics, his voice firm. “Keep her alive.”

The helicopter lifted off moments later, the trauma center in Pierre their destination. As the castle disappeared beneath them, Brad, his resolve stronger than ever, held Isobel close as the med team worked around him.

Malcolm Hale was dead, but the scars he had left behind would take time to heal. Brad only hoped he could be the one to help her through it.

The medicsand Brad rushed Isobel inside the hospital from the helipad. Tristan was already waiting with an ER team. Brad’s heart pounded as he watched them lift her to the stretcher.

“Isobel,” Tristan’s voice cracked as he saw the state she was in. He pushed past the medics, immediately assessing her condition. Her pulse was weak, her breathing shallow. Bruisescovered her skin, and the cuts marred her arms. There were also signs of electric shocks.

“Get me a central line kit and get warm fluids running,” he barked at the nurses. His hands moved swiftly.

The helicopter carrying John, Ethan, and Alex landed minutes later. They burst into the ER, their faces pale and worn from the raid. They gathered near the entrance, watching with anxious eyes as Tristan worked on Isobel.

The trauma room buzzed with the controlled medical dance as Tristan and his team worked with relentless precision. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over Isobel’s battered body, each bruise and laceration a testament to the horrors she had endured. Brad stood at the opposite edge of the room, his fists clenched and his jaw tight, helpless against the tide of emotions surging within him.

Tristan didn’t look up as he worked, his focus unyielding. He inserted a central catheter that ran just outside her heart, his movements steady but urgent. “Get the blood samples to the lab STAT,” he said, his voice clipped. “We need to know her hemoglobin levels and check for any sepsis markers.”

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