Her Redeemed Protector (Red Mark Rescue & Protect #5)

Prologue – Huxley Luca Cometti

PROLOGUE – HUXLEY LUCA COMETTI

Western Montana – three years ago

I’m not good at goodbyes, so I slip away while my brother and mother are still asleep. Even by the standards of ranch life, my departure is early.

The Starfire Ranch, my childhood home, has been my refuge since I decided to end my Navy career. But it’s time to face the world once again.

Parting from my SEAL brothers left a void in me. We were more than a team. We were a family bound by loyalty and the shared blood of our missions. Operation Jaguar Strike in Colombia was the last of those missions. The memory is seared into my mind like the scar on my face. The firefight, the chaos, and the moment that changed everything.

I touch my scar, feeling the jagged line beneath my fingertips. But the deeper wound, the one inside, is the real reason I had to step away. The nightmares, the guilt—they were becoming too much. I had to distance myself, or I’d be a danger instead of a dependable team member.

My mother was eager to get me back to herding cattle and mending fences like in the old days. She’d often drop hints about settling down. Running a farm isn’t for the fainthearted—you need all the help you can get to keep things afloat. Many around us had fallen victim to takeovers and buyouts after prolonged droughts. But Starfire is in good shape, and I needed a change of scenery.

Today is my first day at my new job. After Colombia, I considered working with children—giving back, mentoring. Yet, the right opportunity eluded me. Private security emerged as the most viable option among the sparse offers available.

The highway stretches ahead, as monotonous as an endless droning sermon. My mind starts to wander, hypnotized by the ceaseless expanse of asphalt and the blur of indistinguishable landscapes in the predawn light.

Out of nowhere, something darts in front of me, racing across the highway. Instinct kicks in, and I slam on the brakes.

My headlights barely light up the object.

No way!

It’s not an object. It’s a boy, and something is immediately off. He’s gagged, his hands bound behind his back, and his clothes are hanging off his small frame in torn shreds.

I yank the truck onto the shoulder and bring it to a stop. Leaping out, I grab the flashlight, my trusty companion in this makeshift tool shed on wheels—a space I’ve procrastinated tidying up.

Adrenaline spikes as I sprint after the boy. His frantic steps are uneven, his breath shallow. He glances back at me, eyes wide with terror, and tries to push himself to run faster.

But he’s already exhausted. He stumbles on the other side of the road, collapsing into the dust. It’s clear he’s been running for a long time. As I approach, his cries grow louder, a heart-wrenching sound muffled by the gag. He scrambles backward, kicking up dirt, his bound hands useless on his back. His eyes plead with me, begging for mercy .

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice as calm and gentle as I can. I slow my approach, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture.

He continues to mumble behind the gag, his words unintelligible but drenched in desperation. Setting the torchlight down, I angle it toward him and kneel, working to untie the gag.

Jesus. He’s no older than ten or eleven.

As the gag falls away, he takes a shuddering breath, still eyeing me warily. The torchlight now gleams on his dry, cracked lips, highlighting tear-streaked paths through the grime on his cheeks. “Please, don’t hurt me,” he cries. “I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

I free his hands, wincing at the sight of the bruises marring his thin arms. The marks are dark and angry, evidence of the violence he’s endured. No wonder he’s terrified and submissive.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise,” I assure him, my voice steady despite the outrage simmering beneath the surface. Who the hell did this to him?

Shrugging off my jacket, I wrap it around his trembling frame. “I’ll help you.”

He flinches slightly at the contact but then relaxes, leaning into the warmth. I stroke his back, my hand moving in slow, soothing circles, hoping to ease his fear.

“Please, don’t let those men take me again,” he begs as I fish out my phone to call 911.

“Where are they?”

“A house just behind the hill.” He nods in the direction he came from.

Before I can make the call, a car pulls over abruptly. By now, dawn has broken enough to see without flashlights. Two men emerge with astonishing speed, moving like a well-oiled machine. Both are dressed in tactical gear, their movements sharp and calculated, exuding a level of confidence that sets alarm bells ringing in my head.

I draw my Glock. Never did I imagine that my first day would start with me brandishing a gun before even reaching the office.

The two men are armed, yet they avoid escalating to a standoff. Despite being on high alert, their weapons stay holstered. I recognize the signs instantly—they’re professionals. Their stances are firm, their eyes unflinching, and their hands rest lightly on their gun handles, not out of nervousness but trained readiness. If they had intended to kill me, they would have made their move by now.

The boy dives behind me, clutching at my legs.

“Are these the men who took you?” I whisper to the boy.

“Uh-uh,” he replies, shaking his head.

I realize my gun might terrify the poor boy—maybe the two men staring at me know that, too. Damn, they look calm. I holster my Glock, never taking my eyes off them, and keep my body between them and the boy.

“Barry, are you okay there, buddy?” the first man says, trying to see past me to check on the boy. “I’m Sam. Your mother sent me.”

I feel movement behind me. The boy, Barry, is clearly torn about whether to go to him. But he decides to stay with me.

The man adds, “We’re working with the police. You’ll be safe with us.”

Meanwhile, his partner, a younger guy, is already on the phone, his eyes flicking between us. He’s giving a quick, concise report, and the word ‘captain’ catches my ear. These guys aren’t just anyone. They’re military, or at least ex-military, like me.

“My name is Huxley Cometti. I found the boy darting across the road and stopped to help. I’m headed to start my job at Wings Security. Call them if you need to verify,” I explain to the first man.

The distant wail of a siren pierces the tense silence. The younger man, identifiable by his lighter complexion and composed demeanor, finishes his call with ‘the captain,’ whom I now believe is part of the Helena PD. He immediately dials another number and puts the call on speaker. Turning to the boy with compassionate eyes, he says, “Barry, it’s your mom.”

A frantic voice bursts through the speaker. “Barry? Barry, honey, is that you?”

“Mom?” Barry’s eyes light up. He creeps sideways, eager to reach the phone and hear her voice more clearly.

I release my protective grip, allowing Barry to go and answer the phone. The younger man steps forward and scoops the boy into his arms just as the first of the police and paramedics arrive.

The man who’s been talking to me extends his arm, offering a handshake. “Thanks for saving him,” he says sincerely. “My name’s Sam Kelleher.”

I grasp his hand, shaking it. “Huxley Cometti,” I respond.

“And that’s my partner, Mark Connor,” Sam adds, nodding toward the other man. Mark is busy comforting Barry. His broad shoulders are slightly hunched as he leans close to the boy, murmuring to him. Barry slowly nods after each sentence, gradually loosening his grip on the big man. After one final, decisive nod from Barry, Mark hands the boy over to the paramedics and begins briefing the police on the situation.

Sam adds, “He and I are Red Mark, a company specializing in rescuing missing children. ”

“The boy said he’d been kept in a house just over that hill.” I point to the other side of the road.

“The Powell County Sheriff is on it. I’m sure those bastards are already in custody,” Sam replies. “You said you were on your way to work?”

“First day, private security in Helena,” I reveal, studying him. It takes a SEAL to know one, and for a few seconds, we share a knowing glance.

“Private security, huh? Your calling?” he asks nonchalantly.

“Pays the bills, keeps me out of trouble, and comes with a free jacket,” I quip, eyeing Barry, still snug in my company uniform and gripping the zipper tightly.

Mark joins us, his expression calm but alert. “Everything okay here?”

“Yeah,” Sam replies. “This is Huxley Cometti.”

“Mark Connor,” he nods, shaking my hand firmly. “Barry seemed to trust you.”

“I was the only one here,” I reply.

“Still. He trusted you,” Mark says, his tone appreciative. “And that trust saved your skin. If we hadn’t noticed it, you’d have been toast the moment you pulled your Glock on us.”

Sam looks at me. “So you work for Wings Security, didn’t you say? Feels like a waste of talent to join a company supplying personnel to banks and shops. You’re more than that. You were military, weren’t you?” The question finally comes out, direct and probing.

“Naval Special Warfare, Group One,” I respond, watching his reaction. He knows exactly what that means.

“Make that two of us,” he replies, a hint of pride in his voice. He’s older than me, and even though he came from the same NSW Group, I’m guessing he deployed to the Middle East during the peak of the Afghanistan conflict. My experience, on the other hand, was in Central and South America .

Mark then asks, “Why did you quit?”

“Too much baggage, and I couldn’t leave it on shore,” I reply, my tone light but the weight of the past unmistakable.

Both men nod, understanding in their eyes. Then Sam speaks up. “Why don’t you join us? We have a probation period, but I’m confident you’ll breeze through it. No uniform, but we offer much more attractive perks. Most of our ground personnel are ex-military, many ex-SEALs. Mark here was Special Forces, Green Beret.”

I nod at Mark, acknowledging his impressive history as a Green Beret. There’s a reason why they’re called ‘the best of the best.’

“Your company specializes in rescuing kids, you said?” I seek confirmation.

“Yes,” Mark replies, his expression serious. “And clearly, you’ve got a way with them. But can you handle the adults?”

“You rescue adults, too?” I ask, a bit puzzled.

“Not usually, only in special cases,” he clarifies. “I mean dealing with parents, law enforcement, the press. Can you handle them?”

“Of course,” I say without hesitation.

Mark hands over his business card. “Talk to us when you’re ready.”

“Baggage welcome,” Sam adds with a grin. “Ego, not so much.”

I take the card and examine it. Red Mark Rescue & Protect , with a fox logo, has its headquarters in downtown Helena.

This feels like the break I’ve been waiting for.

As Sam and Mark start to leave, I call out, “Are you guys free today?”

They both turn, smiles spreading across their faces as they nod.

A sense of purpose stirs within me, a feeling long forgotten. Redemption may be out of reach, and I will forever carry the wreckage of Operation Jaguar Strike—a child lost, the woman I love brutally murdered. But today’s unexpected turn of events has me diving into waters I’m eager to navigate rather than merely float through.

And maybe, just maybe. If I maintain my course, these currents will steer me to a new shore. A place where the shards of my past are reforged, and my heart is given a second chance.