Chapter 41
CHAPTER 41
Hillary’s breath came in ragged gasps as she clawed at the ground, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and Michael. Her body screamed in protest, her legs heavy and trembling, but her focus was singular: escape.
Michael was back on his feet, looming over her like a dark specter. His shirt was torn, his face streaked with soot and blood, and his wild eyes burned with a kind of fury she’d never seen before. She froze as he took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his lips curling into a twisted grin.
“You’re tough, Hillary,” Michael hissed, his voice low and venomous. “But don’t worry. This will all be over soon.”
Hillary’s eyes darted around desperately, searching for something—anything—that could save her. Russ was struggling to regain his footing a few yards away, but he wouldn’t get to her in time. Michael was too close now, his shadow swallowing her whole.
Then came the noise.
The low, guttural growl of an engine roared to life, cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap. Gravel spat and skidded behind a car, and Hillary’s head whipped around just in time to see a sleek black sedan barreling toward them. Her heart caught in her throat as the car surged forward, its headlights cutting through the hazy, smoke-filled air.
Michael turned, his expression twisting into one of shock and disbelief. The last-second realization hit him like the car itself. His eyes widened, his lips parted as if to scream, but no sound came.
The impact was brutal. The car slammed into Michael with a sickening thud, sending him soaring into the air like a ragdoll. He landed with a bone-jarring crash several feet away, his body crumpling against the hard ground.
For a moment, everything went silent. Hillary’s chest heaved as she stared at the scene in stunned disbelief. The car screeched to a halt, the engine cutting off abruptly. The driver’s door opened, and Madame Fournier stepped out, her expression calm and composed as if she’d merely swatted a fly.
Russ was on Hillary in seconds, dropping to his knees beside her and pulling her into his arms. “Hillary,” he breathed, his voice cracking with relief. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away the soot and dirt smudged across her cheeks. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m... I’m fine,” she stammered, though her voice was shaky. Her hands clutched at his shirt, grounding herself in the solid weight of him. “Is he?—?”
“Alive,” Russ muttered grimly, his gaze flicking to where Michael lay sprawled on the ground. “Unfortunately.”
The sound of shouting drew their attention as the police finally arrived, their voices cutting through the morning. They rushed toward the scene, weapons drawn, only to find Michael groaning weakly on the ground.
“He’s down,” one of the officers called out, motioning for his colleagues to lower their weapons. “Get the medics over here!”
A pair of EMTs pushed through the crowd, kneeling beside Michael to assess his injuries. One of the officers began reading him his rights, their voice firm and unwavering despite the chaos around them. Michael groaned in protest, but his struggles were weak and uncoordinated.
Madame Fournier dusted off her gown as she approached Hillary and Russ, her expression calm but her eyes sharp with determination. “Well,” she said, her tone almost conversational, “that was satisfying.”
Russ let out a breathy laugh, his grip on Hillary tightening slightly. “I did promise you’d get your shot at making him pay,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Though I didn’t think you’d take it quite so... literally.”
Madame Fournier raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on her lips. “I am true to my word. I said he’d pay for what he’d done. I just didn’t say the currency would be broken bones.”
Hillary let out a shaky laugh, her body finally beginning to relax as the reality of what had just happened sank in. “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” she said, her voice still tinged with disbelief.
Madame Fournier’s smile widened slightly. “Consider it a standing warning,” she said, her tone wry. Her gaze softened as she looked down at Hillary, her hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “But more importantly, are you alright?”
Hillary nodded, her hand tightening around Russ’s arm for support. “I will be,” she said honestly, “thanks to you.”
Russ rose to his feet, helping Hillary up as well. Hillary glanced back at the scene, watching as Michael was loaded onto a stretcher, his arms cuffed securely to prevent any further attempts at escape. The sight should have brought her a sense of closure, but all she felt was a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
As they walked, Madame Fournier’s voice carried over the hum of conversation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to ensure that my insurance policy is in order,” she said with a faint smirk. “And perhaps find myself a stiff drink.”
Russ chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Remind me to never underestimate you again,” he called after her.
“Wise choice,” she replied without missing a beat.