Chapter 6 #2
He led the men into the maze of holiday stalls.
The Christkindlmarket. Glühwein steamed from mugs, wafting scents of cinnamon and cloves his way.
Vendors hawked hand-carved ornaments, nutcrackers, and candied nuts.
Michael took a right then a left then another left, pausing behind a sign for gingerbread.
Two children gleefully bought giant cookies with bright red smiles, oblivious to the two killers weaving through the crowd behind them.
But a diversion wasn’t a diversion when the enemy had already planned the board. Michael had drawn some heat away from Jayda—but not all of it. She was somewhere in these streets fighting for her life.
He wove through the market, shoving through the crowd, hoping the men didn’t spot him. The maze had two more rows to go. His investigative brain, usually razor-sharp under pressure, fuzzed with one thought: Jayda is in danger.
The men stepped out, one from the right and one from the left.
They blocked him behind a row of wreath stalls, half-hidden in the glow of white lights.
One man lunged, reaching inside his coat.
Michael reacted without thinking—fist slamming into his jaw.
The man reeled, colliding with a stack of crates, and evergreen wreaths tumbled everywhere, pine needles flying like shrapnel.
The second man came at him harder, swinging low. Michael dodged, took a punch to the ribs, and grunted. He wasn’t green. He’d been in tight spots chasing cartel money and human traffickers, but these men weren’t street thugs. They were professionals—trained, disciplined and dangerous.
Michael kicked the first man square in the knee when he tried to rise. The crack was audible. His scream louder. One down. But the second had a knife now, the glint catching the Christmas lights above.
Michael ducked as the blade swiped, the air whooshing past his face. He grabbed a string of twinkling lights from the stall and yanked. With the wire tangled around the man’s wrist, the knife clattered to the ground.
Michael punched him once, twice, until the man slumped.
Chest heaving, he stumbled backward, adrenaline flooding him. The wreath vendor screamed at him that he was calling the cops.
“Do it!” Michael replied.
Somewhere nearby, carolers sang O Holy Night. The contrast made bile rise in his throat. He staggered back to the streets and alleys. Each of them empty.
No Jayda.
Panic iced his veins.
“Jayda!”
Nothing.
He ran, scanning alleys, crowds, every shadow. She was gone. They’d taken her, or she was still cornered. Either way, time was running out.
He shoved through a group of photographer elves with their Santa.
Children gathered to meet the big guy, and here Michael was, leading danger to them.
For one sharp second he thought of Simon’s words—What about Michael’s safety?
—and almost laughed bitterly. He’d thrown himself into this willingly.
And now innocent people could pay for his choices.
Michael spun in the street, frantic, needing to separate from the crowds.
Then—a strange movement far past the ice rink.
A tall man dragged another person toward the glow of the winter fairground.
The other person slumped in the crook of his arm.
A set of black curls moved Michael’s feet in their direction.
Jayda.
There were masses of people between them.
Michael bolted, and sharp cold air burned his throat.
The Chicago air had teeth tonight—winter biting deep and clinging to the lining of his lungs.
Snowflakes drifted lazily under the strings of Christmas lights crisscrossing Millennium Park, painting the scene deceptively festive when a woman was being kidnapped.
Couples twirled hand in hand on the ice rink.
Children shrieked with joy as they clung to their parents and learned to skate.
The music from a brass quartet echoed under the towering Christmas tree nearby.
A scene of holiday perfection.
Except Jayda barely moved in the man’s grip. She appeared lifeless.
Michael shoved through the crowd at the edge of the rink.
The fastest way to them would be to cross the rink.
His throat tightened. He couldn’t shout, not yet.
Panic would spread, and panic meant Jayda could get hurt before he reached her.
He needed to get across the ice and cut the man off from leaving the park.
Michael shoved a teenager aside, muttering an apology, and vaulted onto the ice in his boots. Bad idea. His feet shot out as if he’d just stepped on a banana peel. He hit the ice flat on his back, the cold jolting straight through his spine.
Great. Smooth. Real heroic.
Gritting his teeth, he scrambled upright, wobbling like a newborn deer.
His leather boots had zero grip on sheer ice.
The Christmas carols booming over the speakers made a mockery of his desperate stagger.
People laughed. A little girl zipped past him with the grace of an Olympian, giggling, “You’re supposed to wear skates! ”
“Yeah, thanks for the tip,” he muttered, eyes locked on Jayda.
She was halfway to the gate now. The man leaned in close, speaking in her ear. Her expression was set tight, but her eyes darted all around her—she was conscious. So why wasn’t she fighting the man?
“I’m here,” Michael whispered, though she couldn’t hear him. His chest burned as he forced himself forward. Every step was a battle between balance and disaster. He slipped once, twice—his arms windmilling wildly—but each fall only made him angrier.
Come on. Hurry up. Maybe this wasn’t the fastest way across.
Finally, he gave up his dignity altogether. He dropped into a half-crouch, using the palms of his hands to push off the ice, sliding forward in awkward spurts. He must’ve looked like a malfunctioning seal, but it got him closer.
Then Jayda’s head turned. Her eyes met his across the rink. For an instant, fear flickered into relief. Then her captor noticed too.
The man’s free hand went for his pocket, then steel glinted. A knife.
“Jayda!” Michael bellowed, his voice cutting through the Christmas music.
Heads turned. A few gasps rippled across the crowd. The man jerked Jayda toward the park’s exit, moving faster now. Michael’s stomach knotted—he’d never make it at this pace.
He jumped back to his feet and sprinted—or the ice-booted version of sprinting—straight toward the railing and launched himself.
His knee slammed into the barrier, pain jolting up his leg, but adrenaline numbed it.
He vaulted over, landing hard on the walkway just as the man dragged Jayda into the shadows beyond the rink.
“Let her go!” Michael roared, charging, closing the gap between them.
The man turned to face him, the knife pressed to Jayda’s ribs. Her captor’s voice was low and cold. “Stay back, or she bleeds.”
Michael froze, chest heaving. His fists clenched helplessly. Every instinct screamed to tackle the guy, but he couldn’t risk it—not with the blade at her side.
Jayda’s gaze flicked to him. Wide. Afraid. But beneath the fear… something sharp. Calculating. One leg moved and then the other, but it buckled right away.
And then it hit him. She’d been tasered, probably with her own stun gun.
He locked his gaze on her, drilling into her eyes the support to try again.
A memory came to his mind. A much younger Jayda, wiry and furious, flooring him in Ginny and Ed’s living room after he’d teased her too far.
A move she’d pulled from God knows where—one second he’d been laughing, the next he was staring at the ceiling with her knee in his chest.
He remembered exactly how she’d done it.
“Jayda,” he said, steadying his voice. “Remember the move. The one you used on me once.”
Her brows flicked. She knew.
He nodded once for her to do it.
Jayda tested her legs again, this time more stable.
The man sneered, confused at their conversation. The time gave Jayda what she needed.
In the next second, she twisted hard, slamming her heel down on his instep. The man hissed, knife jerking just enough. Jayda bent low, grabbed his wrist, and pivoted—using his own momentum against him. The same move she’d used on Michael years ago.
The man hit the pavement with a grunt, knife clattering free.
“Good girl,” Michael said, lunging for the weapon. He kicked the blade away and drove his fist into the man’s jaw. Bone cracked under his knuckles. The man went slack, groaning.
Michael hauled Jayda upright. “You okay?”
Her breath puffed white, shaky but defiant. “Yeah. Now, I am. But I might still need you to hold me up.”
He chuckled. “Your stun gun?”
She offered a wobbly smile with a little chagrin. “Thanks for the reminder…about the move.”
“Don’t mention it.”
But their relief lasted only a heartbeat. When they turned, two more men stepped from the shadows, a feral expression on their faces. Both wore dark coats, their hands resting casually inside—concealing weapons, no doubt.
Michael shoved Jayda slightly behind him, his pulse hammering. “You want her, you’ll have to go through me.”
The first man shook his head almost sadly. “You don’t understand. This isn’t about you. Walk away, and maybe we’ll let you keep breathing.”
Michael wasn’t about to wait for them to make a move.
But Jayda wasn’t ready to run. He did the only thing he could, scooping her up to cradle her, and sprinting back to the glow of the Christmas bazaar.
The police would have hopefully arrived already.
He weaved through stalls but this time remembered a cab parked on the right side of the fair.
At last, they burst out onto Michigan Avenue, where the taxi still waited at the curb, the driver eating a donut.
They’d made it. Barely.
Michael opened the rear door and tossed Jayda inside, both of them collapsing into the seat.
“Go!” he yelled, his jaw tight, scanning the sidewalks. The men hadn’t made it through…or made other plans to cut them off somewhere else.
The driver took to the streets with precision and speed, but Michael had to be ready for an ambush at any second.
These men weren’t done. Not by a long shot.