14. Jack
14
JACK
A loud, high-pitched cry forces me to take off my headset.
That cry can only mean one thing: Quinton is not here. He’s in Clancy!
As I recover from the piercing noise, a cacophony of voices emanates from the radio, painting a vivid picture of chaos.
“Sam! What the hell is going on?” I whisper-shout as I maintain my position.
However, my brother isn’t responding, and neither is Ava.
Regret swarms around me like an army of ants. I should’ve been there with Sam and Ava. This is so fucked up! I’m too close to the heart of the beast, I’ve become shortsighted, and I’m paying the price—or rather, Ava is paying the price.
Maybe Quinton is, too.
As I ponder a way to correct my missteps, I’m reminded of the sound I heard coming from outside this house just a moment ago. Did I misinterpret that faraway cry? Or did I merely imagine it?
Positioned near the door, Huxley grabs my attention, signaling for me to look outside. There, I spot the driver of the white van we’ve been observing making his way toward the house. It’s the round-faced man.
I block out all other thoughts and concentrate on apprehending the enemy in sight.
Now that the car engine has stopped, all I can hear are the round-faced man’s footsteps. He climbs onto the porch, and in the background, I hear the distant cry once more. I remove my headset, allowing it to hang around my neck. I can’t hear anything but static coming out of it.
The man takes another step, and suddenly, I hear it loud and clear. That cry is not coming from the radio. The voice is physically present here! Even Huxley hears it this time. He gives me a signal to quickly exit the door and leave him to handle our lone enemy.
Meanwhile, the footsteps outside come to a halt. The round-faced man bends down to pick up something while grumbling, “Stupid fucking toy!” It turns out he’s picking up the plush giraffe that was left behind among the junk.
At my command, Huxley and I barge through the door. The Comet swiftly grabs his arms, locking them behind his back while simultaneously covering his mouth—clearly, our enemy is about to alert someone. But he’s no match for Huxley and me. While my partner ties his hands, I gag our captive.
Now that we’re outside, the cry becomes clearer. It’s still distant, so there’s no way it’s coming from inside the van that’s parked just a few yards away. With just one glance, Huxley understands exactly what I’m thinking. He’s like a younger brother I never had.
“I’ve got him!” Huxley grits out, determination in his voice.
Without hesitation, I sprint toward the source of the cry. It’s coming from along the street. As I turn the corner, my eyes catch sight of some movements. There, just outside a park, stands a man who is impatiently gesturing to someone. And then, as if out of nowhere, a stroller glides into view from behind a cluster of trees.
Slowly, a woman emerges. I’m still a distance away, but I’m certain it’s the babysitter trying to comfort the crying baby nestled in the stroller. I know the rules. One of them is never to assume. But even without visuals, I know in my heart that it’s Quinton.
Suddenly, my attention diverts as the man catches sight of me. He raises his weapon and begins firing. The babysitter’s scream pierces through the chaos, her figure vanishing into the depths of the park, frantically pushing the stroller away. Even in broad daylight, the surrounding area is cloaked in shadows thanks to the dense, towering trees. It could well be a forest.
The man’s relentless barrage of bullets forces me to seek shelter, but I can’t lose Quinton. I have to finish the gunman before the babysitter runs too far. He’s about a hundred yards away, and I only have a pistol with me. But it’s my trusty SIG, known for its accuracy over long ranges.
I take aim and squeeze the trigger, bringing down the assailant in a single shot. His body crashes to the ground. After detecting no movement, I approach. Sweat drips down my brow as I kneel beside him, ensuring he is no longer a threat.
The immediate danger has passed, but my next action will make or break the mission—and the stakes are the life of a baby. I sprint toward the spot where the babysitter disappeared, my eyes scanning the surroundings for clues. As I venture further, a trail comes into view, a faint imprint amid the underbrush. My heart quickens at the sight, propelling me forward. Not far in the distance, I catch a glimpse of them .
“Stop!” I yell. “Hand over the baby, and I swear I’ll let you go!”
But the woman refuses to give in. I continue chasing after her. Knowing it’s a matter of time before I catch her, in panic, she releases the stroller. At this time, the crying has stopped. If she has harmed Quinton in any way, I swear I will take matters into my own hands and end her.
As we race a downhill slope, the stroller becomes a runaway train, heading straight for a creek! The babysitter runs in the opposite direction, but I pay her no mind. My focus is on the stroller’s path.
From where I am, I can see Quinton’s legs hanging out. He’s slipping through the straps! I could jump and reach for the stroller’s handles, but abruptly stopping it might make Quinton fly out. In a split second, I leap over the stroller, using my body to cushion its impact and ensure Quinton doesn’t fall on the rocky ground. My shoulder takes the brunt of the fall, but Quinton escapes the tumbling stroller and lands safely in my arms.
My heart races, sweat covers my face. When I look down, I’m met with Quinton’s scrutiny. I’m certain he’s on the verge of crying.
“Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe. You’re safe.” I cradle him.
The baby wriggles—not in distress but driven by curiosity. I loosen my hold, and he reaches for my Ray-Ban sunglasses, nudging them up to let him peek at my eyes. He giggles as if I was the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “Po po po,” he babbles.
I gently pat him all over to ensure he’s not injured. It’s my first time holding a baby, but his joyful expression and ability to move freely assure me he’s in good health.
With sweat oiling my nose, my sunglasses slip down. When I lift them, Quinton laughs even harder, repeating, “Po po po! ”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, baby. But I’m glad you like me.”
The pain throbbing in my shoulder, possibly dislocated, is forgotten as his laughter numbs the ache. The stroller lies overturned by the edge of the creek, its wheels spinning lazily. I retrieve a blanket from it, wrapping Quinton snugly to shield him from the breeze.
I remain on high alert, scanning the surroundings for any sign of Willem’s men, but all I see are leaves rustling in the wind.
Adjusting my headset, I pique Quinton’s curiosity, his tiny fingers reaching for the microphone as if eager to join the conversation. “Sam, I’ve got him. I’ve got Quinton,” I announce, my voice crackling through the static-filled radio. Unsure if anyone can hear me, I persevere, determined to keep them informed.
Quinton eagerly sinks his teeth into the microphone’s rubbery tip. I pull it away from him. “You need that giraffe teether, don’t you?” I remark, a hint of amusement in my voice. I urge him to speak. “Say Mama.”
“Mo.”
“Mo? Are you calling Elmo?”
“Mo!”
I chuckle. The bond between Quinton and Elmo must be strong, perhaps even rivaling Ava’s position as his number one. “Don’t worry, and I won’t tell her,” I quip.
Leaning back against the trunk of an elm tree, I take a moment to catch my breath. Quinton crawls along my lap, his grip surprisingly strong. Perhaps he sees me as nothing more than a mattress. I slide down, making myself as flat as I can, allowing him to reach the top of me. His tiny hands brush against my Ray-Bans, eliciting laughter as I play peek-a-boo with him. If this was a military operation, it’d be by far the best debrief I’ve had.
Amid Quinton’s innocent laughter, reality sinks in. I have fulfilled my promise. Now, all I need is the safe return of Ava and Sam.