Her dark hair was matted with ice, and her clothes—a thin wool coat and a light dress—were nowhere near enough for this kind of weather. “Hey, can you hear me?” he called out, firmly but calmly shaking her shoulder. Her pulse was faint and thready, but it was there. She was alive.
There wasn’t a second to lose. If he didn’t get her warm, she wouldn’t last the hour. Lifting her, he was struck by how light she felt—almost fragile, like she’d been running on empty for a long time. Her head slumped against his chest as he carried her toward the idling truck, shielding her from the wind with his own body. Once inside the cab, Mike cranked the heater to its maximum setting.
He laid her across the passenger seat and kept the engine running to maintain the heat. He grabbed a heavy wool blanket from the sleeper berth and wrapped her tightly, then unscrewed his thermos and held it to her lips. “Come on, honey, just a sip,” he urged, trying to get some hot coffee into her. She stirred slightly, her eyelashes fluttering, but she didn’t regain consciousness, which made Mike’s jaw tighten with worry.
He needed to get her to a hospital, and fast. He threw the truck into gear and pulled back onto the road. The tires spun for a second on the ice before catching, and the rig began to pick up speed. Gripping the wheel, he wondered: what was she doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Was it a car accident, or had she been dumped there? The questions raced through his mind, but his priority was getting her to safety.
About twenty miles ahead was a 24-hour truck stop. It wasn’t a hospital, but it had a roof, a landline, and hopefully, a clear path for an ambulance. He glanced at the girl—her breathing was shallow, her face as pale as a ghost. “Hang in there,” he said aloud, hoping she could hear him through the fog. “We’re almost there.”
The blizzard outside intensified, cutting visibility to near zero. Mike whispered a short prayer under his breath: “Don’t give up on me now.” Suddenly, a weak whisper broke the silence in the cab: “Don’t let him…” He glanced over, seeing her lips move, though her eyes remained closed.
“Don’t let who?” he asked, but there was no further reply. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran down his spine. Something was wrong. As he adjusted the blanket, a leather wallet slid out of her coat pocket and landed on his lap. Mike hesitated. He wasn’t the type to pry, but he needed to know who she was—maybe find a contact for her family.
He flipped the wallet open and pulled out a driver’s license. When he read the name, the blood drained from his face. His heart hammered against his ribs, drowning out the roar of the engine. He knew that name—and he suddenly understood exactly why she was out here. This wasn’t just a girl in trouble. This was the daughter of the man he’d been hiding from for the last ten years.
If she was out here alone, freezing to death, it meant someone was hunting her. And that meant they’d be coming for him, too. The name on the ID—Sarah Sterling—changed everything. Mike gripped the wheel tighter, his mind racing back to a life he’d tried to bury a decade ago.
Sterling. It was a name that carried weight in the dark corners of the state—tied to power, corruption, and a very long reach. It belonged to Silas Sterling, a “fixer” who had once run the region’s underworld with an iron fist. Silas didn’t leave witnesses. Now, Mike swallowed hard, his eyes darting between the unconscious girl and the whiteout conditions outside.
How was this possible?
Comments are closed.