Chapter 33

Thirty-Three

T he war room buzzed with relentless energy, maps and laptops crowding the table as Brad reentered, carrying the laptop he’d found on the floor of Tristan’s office. The screen had lit up as he picked it up, revealing a faint glow of familiarity. His heart clenched when Sophie’s sharp intake of breath drew his attention.

“That’s Izzy’s laptop,” Sophie said.

Brad’s stomach twisted. “I found it on the ground in Tristan’s office,” he explained. “What was she doing with it?”

Sophie bit her lip, her gaze darting to the screen. “She asked to use the office after you dropped her off,” she said. “She was nervous—kept saying she was going to help you. She was on the phone at one point, then Molly went into labor.”

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 opened one 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 facade shrouded in darkness and shadow. The gothic spires and battlements seemed almost surreal, like a fortress 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.

“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 was interminable 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 medics and 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. Bruises covered 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.”

A nurse stepped forward, deftly collecting the blood and moving it into labeled vials before hurrying out of the room. Another nurse worked on inserting a nasogastric tube into Isobel’s stomach, her hands sure and gentle.

Brad’s voice cracked as he spoke from the corner, his presence barely acknowledged, “How bad is it?”

Tristan didn’t look up, his jaw tight. “It’s bad,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced at the monitor briefly. “Her core temperature is dangerously low. She’s hypothermic. We’re warming her from the inside out.”

A second nurse inserted a catheter into Isobel’s bladder, connecting it to a bag of warmed saline. The lead nurse on the trauma team stood back. No signs of rape,” she said aloud, her voice flat but tinged with relief.

Brad exhaled sharply, the words momentarily lifting a weight from his chest. But the reprieve was short-lived.

“There are signs of torture.” Tristan carefully cleaned and dressed the raw wounds on her wrists, his hands steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “She’s been beaten badly. Dehydrated. Starved. Her lungs are full of fluid—pneumonia. We’ll start her on bi-pap to stabilize her airway.” He barked orders to a nearby respiratory therapist, who quickly set up the machine.

The room filled with the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the faint hiss of oxygen. Tristan secured the bi-pap mask over Isobel’s bruised face, adjusting the straps carefully to avoid causing more pain. He glanced at a nearby nurse. “Keep her oxygen saturation above ninety. If it drops again, I’ll intubate.”

Brad stepped closer, his voice shaking. “Tristan… is she going to make it?”

For the first time, Tristan looked up, his eyes locking with Brad’s. They were bloodshot, filled with determination. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “She’s fighting, but she’s been through hell. It’s going to take everything we’ve got—and everything she’s got—to pull her through.”

Brad swallowed hard, his throat dry. “You have to save her.”

Tristan nodded curtly, his focus returning to his patient. “I’m not giving up on her. Neither should you.”

Another nurse spoke up, her tone urgent, “Heart rate’s stabilizing, but her blood pressure is still low. Could be early septic shock.”

Tristan cursed under his breath. “Damn it. Hang two units O-negative blood. And add a broad-spectrum antibiotic—let’s cover for everything.”

The nurse nodded and moved quickly to comply. Tristan adjusted the monitor’s settings, his every movement deliberate. “We’ll treat her like she’s septic until we know otherwise,” he said, his tone clipped. “Start her on a norepinephrine drip to maintain her blood pressure.”

Brad felt like the walls were closing in. Every beep of the machines, every movement of the medical team was a reminder of how close he was to losing her. “She said my name,” he whispered. “Before she passed out. She said my name.”

Tristan didn’t answer immediately, his focus on adjusting the flow rate on the IV line. After a long moment, he glanced up again. “Then she knows you’re here,” he said simply. “That’s something.”

The words hit Brad like a lifeline, a fragile thread of hope. He nodded, gripping the edge of the counter as he fought to stay grounded.

One of the nurses stepped back, tearing off her gloves. “We’ve done what we can for now. It’s up to her body to respond.”

Tristan straightened, his gaze still fixed on Isobel. He rubbed a hand over his face, the tension etched into every line of his features. “We’ll monitor her closely. But, Brad…” he hesitated, searching for the right words, “she’s not out of the woods. Not by a long shot.”

Brad nodded. “Just tell me what I can do.”

“Stay here,” Tristan said. “Let her know she’s not alone. She’s been through hell, and knowing you’re here might be what keeps her fighting.”

Brad pulled up a chair beside the bed, his hand trembling as he reached for Isobel’s. Her skin was cold and fragile, but he held it tightly, as if his grip could anchor her to life.

“I’m here, Belle,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Tristan glanced at him and saw his wounded arm. “Let me treat you. You can’t afford an infection.”

Brad nodded.

Charlotte Everhart arrived moments later, her face streaked with tears, and Alex moved to her side, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Izzy’s alive,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “She’s alive.”

Charlotte collapsed into his arms sobbing, her relief mixing with grief. Alex held her, his own heart heavy with the emotions swirling inside him. They had saved Isobel. But the fight to bring her back from the brink was far from over.

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