Chapter 9

To avoid drawing attention, the officers were all in plain clothes.

I crawled through a broken rear entrance into the pitch-dark factory.

The blood on my thigh seemed to have dried up; it had crusted and stuck to my pants.

Every movement was excruciating.

At least I didn't have to stab myself anymore.

Moving as quietly as I could, I crept toward the center of the factory.

After a few steps, I could hear voices—low, nervous.

"The George family hasn't responded yet. If they don't pay by midnight—"

"They'll pay. That kid is worth billions."

Then I heard it. A small, shaky voice.

"I want my mommy."

Noah.

My vision blurred. I bit down on my hand to keep from crying out.

He was alive. He was scared, but alive.

I counted two men. One was on the phone, pacing. The other sat near Noah, scrolling through his own device.

The careless one—the one not paying attention—was closest to Noah.

Harris's voice crackled softly through my earpiece. "We're in position. On your signal."

I picked up a rusted pipe from the ground. Felt its weight.

Years ago, in that dark alley, I'd fought my stepfather with nothing but my fists and fury.

This time, I had a pipe. And something far more dangerous.

A mother's rage.

I moved fast.

The pipe connected with the distracted man's temple before he even looked up. He crumpled.

The other man spun around, reaching for something in his waistband.

"FREEZE!" Harris and his team burst through every entrance simultaneously.

The man's hand never reached his weapon.

In the chaos of flashlights and shouting, I dropped to my knees in front of Noah.

His face was dirty. His eyes were red. His little hands were tied with zip ties.

I cut them with trembling fingers.

"Mommy?"

"I'm here, baby. I'm here."

He threw himself into my arms and sobbed. His tiny body shook against mine.

I held him so tight I was afraid I'd break him.

"You came," he whispered.

"I'll always come. Always."

Behind us, the men were being handcuffed. Harris gave me a nod.

Outside, sirens wailed. Red and blue lights painted the walls.

And somewhere in the distance, I heard Michael's voice—frantic, desperate—calling both our names.

He arrived seconds later, bursting through the police line.

When he saw me on the ground, covered in blood, holding our son—he stopped.

For the first time, Michael George looked at me and didn't see a burden, a nuisance, or a disappointment.

He saw the woman who crawled through a factory on bleeding legs to save their child.

He fell to his knees beside us.

"Amanda—"

"Don't," I said. "Not now."

He reached for Noah. Our son clung to me tighter.

"I want Mommy," Noah said.

And those three words broke something in Michael that all my arguments never could.