Page 39 of Defended By the SEAL
“Yes! Who is he?”
A somber blankness took over his face as if it had been dipped in a vat of terror. He nodded slowly. “He is Jan Sarkisyan. The leader of the terrorist group called the PFP. And if Miss Loretta is there with him alone, I’m afraid she’s in very big trouble.”
21
Charlotte was dizzy, each step through the knee-deep snow an agonizing effort. Her breath came in harsh gasps, white puffs disappearing into the storm. Her thoughts were a whirlwind—Cowboy was missing, Sarkisyan was a dangerous liar, and her grandmother was alone in the house with him. And don’t even get her started on her very late period.
“Keep moving!” Champion’s voice cut through the howling wind. His flashlight beam wavered as he surged ahead, Austin close on his heels. Charlotte pushed herself to keep up, her legs trembling from exertion and fear.
Suddenly, Austin skidded to a halt, his flashlight catching on something ahead—a dark shape half-buried in the snow. “Hold up!” he shouted, crouching down to investigate.
Charlotte’s heart leaped into her throat as she recognized the figure. “Oh, my God. Leo!” She dropped to her knees beside Cowboy, frantically brushing snow from his face. His skin was pale, his lips tinged blue, and his breathing shallow.
“He’s alive,” Austin said, his voice tight with relief. “Barely.”
“Help me,” Champion said, already moving to lift Cowboy’s limp form. Together, they hoisted him up, draping his arms over their shoulders.
Charlotte stayed close, her flashlight illuminating the uneven ground as they struggled back toward the house. Her fingers hovered near Cowboy’s, desperate to touch him. “You’re going to be okay,” she murmured, though her voice cracked with uncertainty.
The house loomed ahead, its dark windows and silent walls a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Champion kicked open the door, and they stumbled in, the sudden warmth making Charlotte’s skin prickle.
Grams was nowhere to be seen. An overturned teacup lay on the floor beside the sofa, the dark stain of its contents spreading across the rug.
Austin and Champion laid Cowboy on the couch before the fire, and Charlotte grabbed a blanket, wrapping it tightly around him. “Come on, Leo,” she murmured, brushing the snow and ice from his hair. “Stay with me.”
“Charlotte… oh, thank God you’re here.” Grams came up short as she entered the room. “What happened to Cowboy?”
It was Austin who answered. “We found him outside in the snow. He’s been beaten pretty badly. Where’s Sarkisyan?”
Grams seemed to collapse, landing in a chair. “He’s gone, but he’s coming back.” Her lips trembled, and tears welled in her eyes. “How did you know?”
“A little bird in the basement of the lighthouse told us,” said Charlotte.
“It’s his men that did this to Cowboy,” Grams insisted. “It has to be.”
Charlotte was beside herself with frustration. “Grams, why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t know what to do. Sarkisyan arrived just before you and Cowboy showed up out of the blue. He found out we were the ones smuggling refugees out of his camps and across the Canadian border.” She shrugged, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. “He said he was going to make an example of us, that our deaths would keep others in line. Then you arrived. He tied Tom up in the basement and said if I didn’t pretend thathewas Tom, he’d have no choice but to kill both of you, along with the two of us. He would do it, too. I’ve seen what that man is capable of.”
“Tom was the one who knocked over the pickle jars,” said Charlotte, as understanding dawned. “There was no broken pipe.”
“Is he still down there?” asked Champion.
Grams nodded. “Sarkisyan padlocked the door. I tried to get in with a paperclip and he caught me. He made me drink that awful tea so I wouldn’t try again.”
As if on cue, Austin and Champion headed for the hallway. “It’s off the kitchen,” Charlotte said, knowing exactly where they were going. She rested her hand on her grandmother’s cheek. “They’ll get Tom out.” A heavy rhythmic pounding was followed by the squeak of a metal hinge.
“Oh thank goodness,” said Grams, her hands coming up to cover her face as she wept.
But Charlotte was bothered. Her gaze went to Cowboy, laying still, beaten and bruised. Then she took in Grams’s teacup and the stain where the heavily drugged tea had poured out onto the rug. Sarkisyan had gone to so much trouble to keep them in place and control the narrative. Yethe was gone. The storm continued to rage on. The bridges surely remained closed.
So where the hell was he? More important, what theactual fuckwas he doing out there?
“What about the refugees?” asked Grams, her trembling hands speaking to her state of mind, if not for that very real medical condition Charlotte had been worried about earlier. “What if he hurts them? They have a baby. An infant! And he might be there right now.”
“He’s not after the refugees,” said Charlotte.
At the doorway stood a bald man with a gray beard. “Loretta!” Grams stood up and went to him, the couple engaging in a long and emotional embrace.
