Page 109 of Rescuing Rebel

A tearful, delirious laugh escapes me. Dizzy from blood loss and the magnitude of what we survived, a rush of euphoria overwhelms me as Ethan’s teammates crouch around me.

Ethan’s steady hands apply a tourniquet to my injured leg, causing white-hot pain to momentarily blind me. But through it all, his face remains my anchor. As hard as I tried to shut him out, I couldn’t sever something that ran soul deep.

Ethan grasps my face, his rough palms so impossibly gentle. Our eyes lock, speaking a language only we understand. No more holding back.

He crushes his lips to mine and pours every bottled-up longing, fear, and devotion into this imperfect moment of hard-won joy.

This is different than our first kiss.

We share breath, tears, the taste of grit, smoke, and abiding love. Our past suffering fades away until only this exquisite sense of rightness remains.

When we finally break apart, the promise of a future shines through the trauma and exhaustion shrouding us. The other Angels huddle together for comfort, but Ethan and I only have eyes for each other. We need no words to express what our hearts have always known.

I cling to Ethan, dizzy with adrenaline and overwhelming love. My fingers trace his beloved face, needing the tactile proof that he’s real. That we made it out together against impossible odds. Exhaustion pulls at me and darkness rushes toward me. My thoughts drift as I reach down and tap my chest.

The file’s safe.

Vi, the file’s safe.

With that, I succumb to the pull of unconsciousness and let it take me under.

FORTY

Ethan

I slump backagainst the rear gate of the deuce, adrenaline fading. Haven is burning. The women are safe. I look at Rebel tucked in my arms and feel a surge of rightness filling me from the inside out.

The transport bounces through the woods until finally turning onto a paved road. The bumpy ride smooths out from there as we escape.

The jarring ride should be unbearably painful for Rebel with the bullet wound to her leg. Maybe it is? Fortunately, she slips in and out of consciousness. That’s both good and bad. I don’t want her to endure the added pain, but she lost a lot of blood. I worry she’s in shock, but there’s little we can do other than place the tourniquet and put her in a recovery position.

The back of the truck is cramped, but we rescued all twenty women. Twenty-one counting Rebel. The women huddle together, some crying softly, others staring numbly ahead. The emotions coursing through them overwhelming—the trauma of captivity, the sudden violence of the rescue, and the spark of hope kindled inside them.

My team comforts the rescued women as best they can, speaking in low, soothing voices. The others cast frequent glances into the dark, alert for any sign of pursuit.

The Rufi disappeared; I assume they altered course to assist Alpha and Bravo team in evacuating from this hellish place. Several times, I try to contact Jeb over my comms.

Nothing but silence returns. I hope he’s with Alpha or Bravo. “Charlie-One to Alpha-One.”

“Max here. What’s up?”

“Did you happen to run across Jeb and Stitch?”

“We have not.”

“He’s not answering his comms. I’ll call Bravo and see if they have them.”

“Copy that. Want us to circle back?” Max is always ready to lend a hand.

“Are you able?”

“We’re several clicks out, but I’ve got Rufi we can send.”

“Thanks.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and send out a silent prayer that Jeb and Stitch are with Bravo. “Charlie-One to Bravo-One.”

“Brady here. What’s up?”

“Is Jeb with you? He’s not answering comms.”

---