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"Slow down," the other ranger, a woman with short, dark hair, says gently.
"Tell us what happened."
I take a deep breath and begin recounting my harrowing experience, leaving out no detail.
"His name is Damon Atwell. I don't know who he works for, but he's been sent to hurt me... or worse. Please, you have to call FBI Special Agent John Miller. He knows about my situation and can help me."
The rangers exchange a glance, and I can see the seriousness in their eyes.
They've realized this isn't just a run-of-the-mill rescue mission.
"Alright," the female ranger says, pulling out her radio.
"We'll get in touch with Agent Miller. In the meantime, let's get you somewhere safe."
As we make our way toward their truck, my mind races with thoughts of what might happen next.
The Mafia won't stop until they find me.
My father won't stop until he finds me.
Damon won't stop until he finds me.
Anthony won't stop until he finds me and I can't call Anthony.
Right now, I can't trust anyone but John Miller to protect me.
I just hope he gets here soon enough.
The male ranger drapes a warm blanket around my shoulders, and I pull it tighter around me, grateful for the heat it provides.
The sensation of warmth returning to my limbs is both comforting and painful, but I welcome it nonetheless.
"Thank you," I whisper, my voice still shaky from my ordeal.
"Agent Miller is on his way," the female ranger reassures me, offering a small smile.
"We'll take you to the guardhouse to get warmed up."
"Thank you," I say again, as they help me into their truck.
As we drive toward the guardhouse, I try to calm my racing thoughts, focusing on the warmth of the blanket and the kindness of the rangers.
Once at the guardhouse, they provide me with hot food and a steaming cup of tea.
The aroma of the tea is soothing, and I let it linger in my nostrils for a moment before taking a sip.
My body feels more relaxed with each mouthful, but the ever-present fear remains.
"Try to relax," the female ranger says. "You're safe here."
"Thank you, but I don't think I'll feel truly safe until Agent Miller arrives," I admit, taking another gulp of the tea.
As if on cue, the door to the guardhouse opens, and a man walks in, his badge hangs prominently from his belt, confirming his identity as an FBI agent.
"Agent Miller," I say with relief, standing to greet him.
But suddenly, I begin to feel vulnerable under his intense gaze.
