1. Huxley
1
HUXLEY
Helena, Montana – present day
“Supersize flat white for Hux,” the barista announces, sliding the sizable cup across the counter. When I fish out my wallet, she gestures dismissively. “It’s on the house.”
“Really? Thanks!” I respond with a smirk. “I still get my loyalty stamp, though, right?”
She brandishes a side grin, chortling. “I’ll throw in an extra one next time. Just remind me.” Then she whirls to greet the next in line.
The café is just opposite the Red Mark office. With so many nights spent working until dawn, our patronage has certainly been appreciated.
At my desk, I notice a bakery-style box with a message on top. Another year older, but I bet you could still outswim a shark! – Ty.
Tyler Hunt, our head of ops, is one of the many ex-SEAL brothers I have the privilege of working with. His wife’s baking is legendary, and her cupcakes are to die for. I barely have time to munch on one when footsteps approach .
Mark Connor, sharp in his gray suit, greets me. “Comet, my man! Happy birthday!”
“Ah, thank you, sir,” I grin, basking in the birthday glory. Suits are the norm at Red Mark, but he’s definitely the best dressed.
“My mathematical prowess tallies your cake at twenty-eight candles.”
“Spot on as always,” I concede.
He then comments, “I thought you weren’t due in until this afternoon.”
“Bed’s as comfy as a porcupine’s back. Figured I’d be productive instead.”
“You don’t look that bad for a man who’s been wrestling with the night. Watch those wrinkles, though. They catch up on you,” the former Green Beret quips, clapping me on the back. I learned after our first meeting that he’s actually older than his business partner Sam Kelleher, but he’s got fewer lines than any of us.
I offer him the cakes, and he takes one without hesitation. “You’re in early, boss. Handing out birthday bonuses?”
“It might just be in the cards.” He doesn’t dismiss the idea. “Sam and I are pitching hard for a new outpost in Bozeman,” he adds. “Investor pow-wow this afternoon.”
“That’s awesome. The boys will be thrilled.”
Bozeman’s been a chess piece waiting to move. We have a solid crew there, contractors who bleed Red Mark’s ethos yet have shied away from the full commitment due to the commute.
Sam joins us and immediately hugs me, tapping my back repeatedly. “Many happy returns, Comet. Glad you’re still with us. We might not shed all your baggage, but hopefully, we’ve lightened the load. ”
“Thanks for holding the line with me, sir,” I acknowledge him.
I owe it to Mark and Sam. Through their guidance and the support of my comrades, I’ve learned how to navigate the fine lines between duty, compassion, and the often-overwhelming wave of public scrutiny accompanying each case. You can’t do this job unless it’s calling for you. Sadly, most of the time, it’s a personal tragedy that sculpts this call.
My epiphany came in the jungles of Colombia. Tasked with extracting a compromised CIA agent, our SEAL team was blindsided by the presence of children in our target zone. It was there, in a moment marred by loss and salvation, that my new purpose crystalized. I vowed to become a guardian for the innocent once my military career ended. And when Sam and Mark burst into my day that morning, I knew it was fate.
Nibbling on his strawberry cupcake, Sam asks, “How’s the royal ranch duo, your mom and bro, holding up?”
“It rained all weekend, sir, so they’re happy.”
“Did I smell cupcakes?” a voice travels through the corridor. It’s Cora-Lee Rancic, the queen of the command center, a tech guru, and an overall adorable genius.
“Join us!” I invite her.
“For you.” She hands me a translucent plastic key etched with intricate designs. “It means you’ve got priority access to my lab. Anything you need.”
Mark and Sam whistle, knowing how in-demand she is.
“Come on, we’ve gotta go,” Mark says, dusting his palms off to remove some sugar powder, and gestures to Sam.
Cora-Lee grabs a cupcake and throws me a question, “Still wrestling with that ghost in your Xbox controller? Need me to exorcise it?”
“Nah, it’s been laid to rest,” I wink at her .
She arches an eyebrow. “You caved and bought a new one, didn’t you?”
I shrug with feigned innocence.
She shakes her head with a knowing smirk, then says, “Catch you later, Comet. I’ve got a stack of facial recs to process. Hope your day’s easy!”
I wave at her as the distinct ring of an international call comes off my cell.
“Huxley! Feliz cumplea?os !”
It’s Marta Rojas’s voice, brimming with a cordiality that crosses oceans. In her neighborhood back in Colombia, she’s affectionately known as Mama Marta. How I got to know her is complicated, but one thing is sure. She always remembers my birthday.
“Marta, gracias ,” I reply, employing one of the few Spanish words I know. “How are you?”
“ Buena, buena . Rodolfo grows up fast,” Marta says in her strong Spanish accent. “I sent you photo. He looks like Valentina, no?”
A name so formidable, yet uttered only by her mother—and whispered silently within my own heart.
“Visit him soon,” Marta urges.
I remain speechless as I try to shoo away the image of Valentina, an apparition woven from anguish and shattered hopes. Not now. Though I carry the wreckage of my past, I’ve vowed not to let it hinder my work.
Marta exhales. “I know you are doing good things in Montana. She would be so proud.”
I’ve learned plenty from life’s harsh lessons. I’m not the type who stubbornly clings to the past, yet moving on is easier said than done. I’ve tried counseling, new relationships, and immersing myself in work. But Valentina was one of a kind. Her touches, her whispers, she embodied everything I admired in a woman. Her courage could humble the proudest of men—she was the CIA’s best informant in that part of the world. Until the cartel butchered her while I was rendered helpless in the hospital, my face wrapped in bandages like a mummy.
A buzzing noise against my ear interrupts Marta’s voice. Tyler’s name flashes insistently on the screen, demanding my attention.
“Marta, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later, all right?” I end the call and answer my head of ops.
“Comet!” Tyler’s voice bursts through the line. He’s currently training a new team in the Flathead Forest.
“Ty!” I start, ready to mention the cupcakes he left on my desk, but the urgency in his voice stops me short.
“We’ve got a case. Bethany Anderson, eight years old. I just talked to her mother. She had an argument with her husband last night, and this morning, she found her daughter missing. Likely taken by the old man.”
“Do the police know?” I query.
“No. She’s pretty skeptical of them,” he replies. “She wants us to handle it ourselves. But if you need the boys in blue for support, reach out to Zander.” Captain Zander is our go-to at the Helena PD—he’s been with us since Red Mark was just Sam and Mark. We focus on the rescue while he liaises with the relevant agencies and deals with jurisdiction.
“I’m on it!” I exclaim.
“I’ll be off the grid soon. Coordinate with Cora-Lee if you need anything.”
As Tyler speaks, I’m already moving, packing my gear. “Understood, Ty. I’m on my way.”
Cora-Lee sends some information en route. At a traffic light, I glance at the images—a photo of Bethany, her father’s face, and his blue Ford truck—committing them to memory.
Every Red Mark agent is teamed with a partner. Mine is Jack Kelleher, Sam’s younger brother. I had called Jack earlier, and now we both pull up at the Andersons’ nearly at the same time. His tension is palpable, underscored by his towering six-foot-six stature. Jack’s fair complexion and blond hair are a stark contrast to Sam’s rugged, dark features. Even after his service with the Marines, Jack retains that stern, clean-shaven look.
“Ready for this?” I challenge.
“Let’s bring her home,” he says with a determined nod.
A visibly distraught woman answers the door, her eyes red from crying. She greets us, but I catch her gaze briefly flickering to the side of my face.
My scar is a marker of my history, not a badge of honor or a scar of shame. To strangers, it’s a peculiar intrigue, often halting conversations as swiftly as it starts them. To my inner circle, I share just enough of its origin to paint a picture, but not the ghosts that linger.
“Mrs. Anderson, we’re here to help find Bethany.” I show her my Red Mark ID. “I’m Huxley, and this is my partner, Jack.”
She invites us in. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. I didn’t trust the police to handle this. Besides, it hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, so they wouldn’t take me seriously. I’ve heard about you from some of your past cases. You always bring them back, don’t you?”
I give her a small smile. “Can you tell us what happened?”
She swallows, then begins, “My husband and I had a huge fight. He was stealing my drugs again.”
“Drugs?” I ask .
“Oh, not the illegal ones. I work in pharmaceuticals. Sometimes, I have samples in my office, and he just can’t help himself. He’s jobless, spends his days drinking, draining our savings.” Then, her angry tone shifts as her voice breaks slightly. “This morning, he and Bethany were gone before it was even light out. He packed a few of her things. This has never happened before.”
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of my next question. “Has your husband ever hurt Bethany?”
She sighs, her voice trembling. “He sometimes beat her, and if I interfered, I’d get a taste of it too.”
I exchange a meaningful glance with Jack. We’re dealing with a man who won’t hesitate to harm his own daughter.
“Mrs. Anderson, can you tell me about Bethany?” I prompt.
A smile breaks through her tears as she wipes them away. “She’s a sweet kid. Bethany’s mute, so she doesn’t really socialize with other children. She’s rather timid, but she’s perfectly healthy. I sometimes joke that she’s fitter than me.”
“So, she’s likely to do what her father says?” Jack asks, concerned.
“She won’t retaliate,” Mrs. Anderson affirms. “She’s too scared to.”
“Can you think of any place your husband might run to or hide?” my partner inquires.
She shakes her head vigorously. “The only places he knows are the bar and the liquor store.”
She’s clearly distressed and not thinking straight. We need to dig deeper.
“Can we see Bethany’s room?” I request.
Mrs. Anderson guides us. It’s a typical girl’s room, with pastel-colored walls and a bed covered in a floral duvet, but a couple of things grab my attention .
“She likes fishing?” I ask, noticing the fake salmon on the wall and fishing-themed postcards among Barbie and girl-band cutouts pinned to a corkboard. The mix looks out of place but hints at her interests and perhaps a connection with her father.
Mrs. Anderson’s eyes widen with sudden realization. “Lance used to be crazy about fishing. Not so much anymore, but back when things were good, he would take Bethany to the Missouri River. They spent a lot of time there.”
This suggests he might have brought Bethany to that familiar spot, perhaps to gain his daughter’s trust before taking her away for good.
Jack nods thoughtfully, likely sharing my suspicion. “That’s helpful. Does he have any friends or acquaintances in the area?”
Mrs. Anderson pauses, pondering hard. “He has a few friends who live near the river. They go hunting together sometimes.”
“Please give us their details, Mrs. Anderson,” I urge.
She grabs a worn address book from a drawer, flips through it, and shows us the relevant pages. Jack snaps photos with his phone.
“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. This gives us a direction to start searching,” I note.
“We’ll do everything we can to bring Bethany back safely,” Jack assures her.
Then I add, “I know you called us to keep the police out of it. But with the wide area we need to cover, we’ll need their help.”
“You trust them not to botch this? Bethany is all I’ve got. What if they set Lance off and he…” She trails off, tears streaming down her face.
I meet her gaze. “We have a good relationship with the Helena PD and other law enforcement agencies throughout the state. They know how we operate. They’ll stay on the periphery while we focus on Bethany. I promise you, we won’t ever put your daughter in danger.”
She wrings her hands nervously, glancing between Jack and me. We wait, giving her the time she needs. Finally, she nods, her resolve breaking. “Okay. Just please, find her.”
“Thank you,” I say. “One more thing, Mrs. Anderson. What makes Bethany relax?”
“What do you mean?” She squints. “Like… anxiety medication?”
“Oh, no, no. I’m referring to what we should consider during our interaction.”
“Ah, I see.” With that, she studies Jack and me as if envisioning her daughter facing us. “Well, she doesn’t really know any other men or boys besides her dad. She’s okay with women, though.”
“So, she’ll likely be terrified of us?” Jack asks, his tone straightforward.
“Probably, yes…” she drawls, apparently cautious not to offend us.
“Can you give us some advice on how we should approach her?” I ask, then turn to my partner. “Jack knows sign language.”
He nods with a hint of pride. The former Marine was kidnapped at the age of seven—one of the reasons why Sam founded Red Mark. Jack didn’t start speaking again until he was twelve, so during those years, people treated him as a non-verbal child.
Mrs. Anderson’s face lights up. “Oh, that will put her at ease. She can hear you, but signing is the only way she can respond.”
“Is there anything else that might help make our encounter with her as stress-free as possible?” We know minimizing potential trauma is as important as the rescue itself.
Mrs. Anderson quickly goes to Bethany’s room and returns with a plush elephant. “When she’s scared, she holds on to Mono. If she sees you with this, she might warm up to you.”
“Thank you,” I say, gesturing to Jack that it’s time to go.
We step out of the house, the weight of our new lead pressing down on us. But I can’t help but feel a bit lighter with Mono in my hand. Jack glances at the plush toy, a look of mild exasperation on his face.
I can’t resist. I move Mono’s head like it’s my puppet, earning a dramatic eye roll from Jack. He always says I’m a kid trapped in a man’s body.
“Just because you’re all dark and broody doesn’t mean I have to be,” I quip.
“Let’s go,” he mutters as we head toward our vehicles.
Being young at heart is my secret weapon. This work demands empathy—a quality that can’t come from indifference.
Many conflate our mission with that of standard law enforcement. What sets Red Mark apart is not our physical prowess or sharp wits. We are the architects of calm amid a storm of terror for these kids. Every move we make, every word we utter, is meticulously crafted to earn the trust of the children we’re sworn to protect. We dive into the minutiae, unearthing details deemed inconsequential by others yet pivotal to forging a bond with our young charges.
“All right, let’s head east,” I say to Jack, pulling my door shut. The drive toward the Missouri River will take a couple of familiar hours. Mono the elephant stares at me from the passenger seat. “We’ll find her,” I murmur.