Chapter 52
Mountain Ridge
The mountains grayed with the first hints of dawn.
Fog clung low through the trees below the ridge, drifting across the old landing strip in thin ribbons while work lights burned near the metal building.
Grant lay flat against the cold dirt beside Scout’s rifle pack, binoculars pressed to his eyes.
Below him, shadows moved.
Men loading pallets into the waiting box truck.
Flashlights cutting through darkness.
Cal.
Izzy.
His stomach tightened violently the second he saw her.
She stumbled coming out of the building, wrists zip-tied in front of her while one of the Florida men gripped her upper arm hard enough to nearly drag her.
Even from this distance, Grant could tell she was exhausted.
Cold.
Terrified.
The man jerked her forward roughly when she slowed.
Grant’s jaw locked so hard it hurt.
“Easy,” Scout’s voice had warned him earlier before disappearing down the ridge toward Burke’s teams.
Too late for easy.
Grant keyed the radio clipped to his vest.
“She’s outside.”
Static crackled.
Then Burke’s voice:
“Confirm visual.”
Grant swallowed hard.
“I’ve got visual on Izzy and Cal.” His voice roughened instantly. “Two hostages. Six… no—eight suspects near the strip.”
Below him, another set of lights flicked on.
Long white runway markers glowing faintly against cracked asphalt, hidden deep in the mountain trees.
Then, a distant engine rolled through the mountains.
Low.
Growing louder.
Grant’s stomach dropped.
The jet.
He adjusted the binoculars sharply.
Lights appeared above the ridgeline.
Fast.
“Aircraft inbound,” Grant said immediately into the radio.
Below him, the men near the strip started moving more quickly.
The larger pallets were being repositioned near the runway.
One of the men shoved Izzy toward the edge of the strip harder than necessary.
She stumbled to her knees on the cracked pavement.
Grant saw red instantly.
The man grabbed her arm and hauled her upright roughly.
“Burke,” Grant growled into the radio, voice shaking now. “They’re putting hands on her.”
“Hold position,” Burke ordered sharply.
The jet dropped lower.
A white Learjet burst over the trees, engines screaming across the mountain valley before touching down hard on the old strip.
Tires hit asphalt.
Smoke curled briefly behind them.
The aircraft roared down the runway and slowed near the loading area.
Grant’s pulse hammered so violently he could barely think.
Below him, the Florida men started moving fast now.
Cargo first.
Then Izzy.
One of the men grabbed her zip ties and pulled her toward the jet stairs.
Cal shouted something behind them.
Another man slammed him against the side of the truck.
Grant surged halfway upright instinctively.
“Grant,” Burke barked through the radio. “Do not move.”
Too late.
The man dragging Izzy shoved her again.
Grant watched her stumble hard against the jet stairs.
Something inside him snapped clean in half.
“Move,” Burke ordered suddenly.
The mountain exploded.
Flash-bangs detonated near the edge of the strip, white light ripping through the darkness.
Men shouted.
Someone fired a weapon.
Deputies poured from the tree line on both sides of the runway, weapons leveled. "Jackson County Sheriff's Office! Get down!"
The Florida men scattered instantly.
One ran for the jet.
Another dove behind the box truck.
Grant never saw what happened next.
He was already moving.
The world narrowed to one thing.
Izzy.
She stood frozen halfway to the aircraft, eyes wide as chaos erupted around her.
One of the men lunged for her.
Grant hit him like a freight train.
The impact drove both men sideways onto the pavement.
The kidnapper slammed hard against the runway and lost his grip.
Grant was on him before he could recover.
A fist.
An elbow.
Then deputies were there, dragging the man away.
"Grant!"
Izzy's voice.
He spun.
She was standing ten feet away, shaking, terrified, tears already spilling down her face.
He dropped to one knee and slashed through the plastic ties. They snapped open with a sharp, ugly crack. Then she was in his arms.
He didn't just hold her; he anchored her.
As his calloused hands slid over her skin, the familiar, sandpaper grit of his palms grounded her against the cold panic of the runway.
His arms locked around her—fully and hard—as if he could shield her from the world with his own chest. Izzy buried her face against him, trembling so violently he could feel every hitch in her breathing.
Grant closed his eyes briefly against her hair. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed roughly against the top of her head. “Thank God.”
* * *
Across the strip, two deputies dragged Cal clear of the truck, shoving him behind a patrol unit and into someone else’s line of sight.
He twisted once against their grip and saw her—Izzy folded against Grant like she’d finally found gravity.
Around them: shouting, sirens, weapons, running footsteps, the screaming whine of jet engines.
But for one second, none of it mattered.
Izzy clung to him tightly, breathing him in like safety itself.
Then her eyes opened against his chest.
Across the strip, Burke stood beside one of the patrol units, watching them.
Exhausted.
Relieved.
Still fully Sheriff Scott.
When he saw her looking at him, he gave the smallest wink.
You’re okay now.
Izzy laughed softly through tears.
Then whispered against Grant—
“Thank you.”