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That's all of this was about. That was Elijah’s connection to Stella and her uncle. A plan to use her as bait to trap a monster.
I relentlessly let it be known I was sick and tired of sitting around with my hands tied behind my back doing nothing. How could they possibly think I’d be content watching them do nothing while she was scared and in danger every second of the day?
She asked me not to go after her, and in the beginning, I wasn’t going to, but that lasted all of two hours before I became insufferable begging Zeke to help me get her back.
The fucker kidnapped two innocent babies. Who the fuck knows what he’d be capable of doing to Stella?
I was physically sick, every second of the day wondering if she was safe, or if I’d ever see her again. But now, I was done being a coward, determined to see this all the way through as long as she came back to me in one piece. Safe.
During my time wallowing around desperately trying to not think of her being hurt, alone, or worse by his side, I realized I wasn’t incapable of feeling or unable to form a connection with anyone because of my traumatic past. I was afraid. Afraid of how amazing it would be, afraid I would one day lose it. Lose her. Today is almost that day.
All humans fear happiness.
It’s in our nature, ingrained in our DNA. It’s what keeps us from going after our dreams, our goals, our aspirations. The fear of failure, fear of deception, fear of losing it all.
Like I said, I’m done being fearful.
I’m going to get the girl, my girl.
???
Two hours later, we pulled up to a small oak cabin in six black SUVs, all with bulletproof doors and blacked-out windows. We had to be careful not to make too much noise as we sped through the rocky terrain, which is impossible if you ask me. Rows and rows of ancient redwood trees line the dirt covered trail marked with bear crossing and Beware of Wildlife signs.
Yet the only dangerous thing lurking in these woods is Stephan Silver.
We ditched the cars and loaded up on tactical gear consisting of bullet-proof vests, combat boots, and backpacks, blending in like a group of enthusiastic campers was anyone to drive by. Not like there is anyone else out here this time of the year.
We’ve each been given a watch with a built-in tracker in case anyone was to get lost or if we were to lose sight of him once we spotted him. Much to my dismay, they refused to give me a gun. Some bullshit about it being not only illegal, but a horrible idea to give an impulsive, hot-headed kid a loaded gun.
Now we’re on foot, walking toward the lone cabin down the long dirt road where Elijah and Stella are hiding.
We're in a full movie detective stake-out mode, monitoring the cabin and its surrounding for any suspicious activity, meanwhile waiting for a signal from Elijah letting us know when Stephan’s approaching.
Not even ten minutes into our stakeout, we hear a loud noise coming from inside.
“We have a problem,” one agent says, as he heads over to where Detective Morrison waits with us.
“What is it, Agent Parker?” Morrison asks, well, more like demands. Morrison’s a middle-aged man who apparently is the best at his job, having started his career working for the DEA before leaving to join the bureau. Now he’s the head honcho down in Washington, paying our little town a visit.
“Elijah signaled us over the radio. He beat us here,” he says, but his face shows there is more he isn’t sharing.
“Who did?” someone asks, only I’m not sure who’s said.
“Stephan sir, he has the girl.”
Everything around me turns red, like flames raging in a wildfire, threatening to violently and unapologetically burn down everything in its path. Every noise blares loudly in my ears, and I’m unable to move a fucking muscle. What I’m feeling must be written in bold over my face, because the looks everyone is giving me are that transparent.
“What the fuck do you mean, he has her?” Detective Morrison shouts, slamming the radio in his hands into the ground at his feet. It shatters into pieces, and that is a perfect representation of what’s occurring inside of me.
“That son of a bitch, I’m done fucking waiting. Give me your gun, Zeke!” I shout, turning toward my uncle, who’s standing to my left. Zeke’s eyes go wide, as did Morrison’s, who warned everyone to keep their own weapons at home. We run guns for a living. I know my uncle’s not that fucking dumb.
Zeke places a hand on my shoulder. “Son, let the detective do his job.”
I shrug away from him. “Fuck that Zeke, I will not sit around and do nothing while he has his hands on her.”
“I’ll go with you,” Kane says, appearing from behind us and stepping between Zeke and me.
Morrison steps up to meet Kane. “Dalton, you aren’t going anywhere,” he groans.
