Page 20 of Her Remarkable Protector

She starts scanning hospital records and surveillance footage, hunting for any trace of Honor or Ethan—or that faded black RAM with its telltale gray undertones.

My eyes are gritty from the long hours, but I dive into the CCTV footage anyway. Frame by frame, I scan the grainy video, until something familiar freezes me.

“There he is.” My voice cuts through the quiet.

Ethan leans over my shoulder, his eyes narrowing. “That’s Oakley?”

“Yep,” I say, adrenaline spiking. “Standing outside a pharmacy in—Downtown Bozeman.”

“We drive there first thing in the morning.”

The pieces finally start to come together.

* * *

We head straight to Bozeman,quickly combing the neighborhood around the pharmacy where Oakley was spotted. It doesn’t take long before I catch sight of it—a familiar RAM truck parked outside a motel.

I pull into the lot, cutting the engine with a sharp click. “This is it.”

He leans forward, squinting through the windshield. “Yeah, they’re here. Has to be.”

And this time, they’re not running any farther.

We step out and start knocking on doors near the truck, moving with purpose but careful not to draw attention. The first door opens to a grumpy couple with matching scowls. The next, an elderly man who seems more annoyed by our interruption than concerned.

Finally, we reach the last door in the row. I glance at Ethan, and he nods, his jaw set. I raise my fist and knock.

“Oakley Stone?”

The curtain shifts, a fleeting motion that’s followed by muffled footsteps. Whoever’s inside is trying to be careful, but the faint creak of the floor gives them away.

“Oakley Stone,” I call again, keeping my tone steady. “We just want to talk.”

Ethan exchanges a glance with me, his hand already moving to work the lock. His precision is quick but quiet, the click barely audible.

The door swings open, revealing a dimly lit room—and chaos waiting to happen.

“Not a step closer!” The boy appears, standing his ground in front of us.

“Oakley, take it easy,” I say, gesturing at a blade glinting in his hand. His eyes, though young, hold the kind of defiance that says he’s prepared to use it.

It’s not uncommon for a kidnapping victim to resist rescue—often a result of the kidnapper’s manipulation. While all signs suggest this isn’t the case here, we can’t afford to make assumptions.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I continue. “My name is Chase Samson, and this is my partner Ethan Connor. We’re from Red Mark Rescue & Protect. Your mother sent us.”

“Stay where you are!” Oakley says. Like that, I can see Damon in him. But he’s scared, and he doesn’t relent in protecting whoever is in the bathroom.

I put down my gun, holstering it. “I’m unarmed.” I raise my hands. “Can I come in?”

“Chase…” Ethan whispers, reluctant to do the same as I walk toward Oakley.

“Back off, Ethan. I’ve got this,” I say.

I hate guns. They’re necessary evil. I grew up with them, I served the country as a SEAL with them. But now, as a civilian who rescues young people, I loathe them. “Oakley, you’ve got to come with us. Your mother is worried about you.”

“I am with my mother!”

“No, Oakley. Honor Deveraux isn’t your mother.” My eyes shift briefly to the closed door behind him.

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