He felt her tears soaking into his expensive wool jacket, but he ignored it. Roman moved toward the tree line. His men moved in a tactical formation around him. One took the lead, two covered the flanks. They entered the woods as a single unit, instantly swallowed by the fog and shadow. The trail the girl guided them on was barely there—more of a deer path than a hiking trail.
Branches snagged at their suits. Roots tried to trip them. The fog grew thicker, pressing in close. The temperature dropped ten degrees in as many steps. Roman could feel the child’s heart hammering against his chest—a frantic rhythm that matched the rising tension in the air. His men moved silently, weapons drawn now, eyes sharp.
They knew this feeling. They had walked into ambushes before, but this felt different. It felt heavier. Suddenly, the woods opened up. The trees pulled back like a curtain. Ahead lay a clearing, circular and unnaturally empty. In its center stood a massive oak, ancient and gnarled, its branches spreading wide like a judge’s bench.
Suspended from one of those branches, swaying slightly in a breeze that didn’t seem to exist anywhere else, was a woman. The little girl let out a muffled cry. Roman’s expression didn’t flicker, but his grip on the child tightened, and his other hand moved to his sidearm. “Check her,” he said quietly. One of his men, Victor, a former Ranger whose hands had seen more violence than most could imagine, sprinted forward.
But as he pressed two fingers to the woman’s neck, searching for a pulse beneath the cold skin, even his hands were steady. “She’s alive,” he called back, his voice tight. “Barely.” Roman showed no relief; relief was a luxury. Action was the necessity. He shifted the girl, Maya, in his arms, turning her face away from the sight of her mother hanging limp.
“Don’t look,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a comfort; it was a command. Maya buried her face deeper into his shoulder, her small body racking with silent sobs. She had cried herself empty. Roman’s other two men moved with immediate precision. One, Dean, pulled a tactical knife and began to scale the tree with the efficiency of a man who had done much harder climbs.
The other, Matt, positioned himself beneath the woman, Ellen, arms ready to catch her weight the moment the ropes were cut. Roman watched them work, his mind already three steps ahead. Whoever did this wasn’t far. The rope marks on Maya’s wrists meant she had been held. The fresh mud on her dress meant she had fallen multiple times.
The terror in her eyes meant the people who did this were the kind who made examples, not empty threats. They were still close. They had to be. “How long ago?” Roman asked Maya, his voice low and steady. The girl lifted her head slightly, confusion crossing her tear-stained face. “What?” — “How long since they left?”
Maya’s eyes went distant, trying to process time through the trauma. “I… I don’t know. Just a little while. Maybe they’re still…” her voice broke. “They said they’d come back. They said if anyone tried to help, they’d…” — “They won’t be coming back,” Roman interrupted, his tone flat and final. He didn’t explain; he didn’t have to. Above them, Dean’s knife sawed through the thick cord with careful haste.
“Ready!” he called down to Matt. “Go!” The rope gave way with a sound like a heavy sigh. Ellen’s body dropped, and Matt caught her with surprising tenderness, immediately lowering her to the damp ground. Victor was over her in a second, checking vitals, assessing the damage with hands that moved like a medic’s, despite belonging to a man who specialized in harm.
“Pulse is weak, but steady,” Victor reported. His fingers moved from her neck to her wrists, examining the deep grooves the rope had carved into her skin. “Likely hypothermia. Shock. She needs a hospital.” — “No hospitals,” Roman said immediately. All three men looked at him. They knew better than to question him, but the silence was the question itself.
Roman carefully set Maya on the ground, keeping a hand on her shoulder to steady her. She immediately tried to run to her mother, but he held her back with quiet firmness. “Not yet. Let them work.” — “But she… She’s alive because we got here. She’ll stay alive if you let my men help her.” Roman’s dark eyes held the girl’s gaze.
“Trust me or don’t, but if you do—you listen.” Maya swallowed hard and nodded, her small hand gripping Roman’s jacket so tight her knuckles turned white. Roman pulled a phone from his pocket, dialing a number without looking at the screen. It was picked up on the first ring. “I need a medical team,” he said, his voice clipped and professional.
“Female, mid-thirties. Hypothermia. Suspension trauma. Possible shock. Confidential location. Twenty minutes.” He paused, listening. “No, not a clinic. The safe house in the hills. Send them.” He ended the call and pocketed the phone. His attention snapped back to his men. Dean had climbed down and was scanning the surrounding area like a predator, reading the forest floor like a book of disturbed leaves and broken twigs.
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