Her Mistletoe Protector

But her survival instinct was greater than her fear. She had to stay alive—not for her sake, but for David’s.

A busy highway waited ahead. Before she reached it, she turned onto another side street. Immediately, she pulled into a parking lot. A shopping center shadowed her car as she drove full-speed in front of the structure. At the corner, she swerved around the building and slammed on the brakes.

Maybe they hadn’t seen her. Hopefully, they’d assumed that she’d gone straight.

But just in case they didn’t, she grabbed her purse and her phone and jumped out of the car.

Two delivery trucks were parked behind the strip mall, and their drivers were unloading boxes of product. Ashley picked the closest one and ran toward him. He looked up as she approached, his eyebrows furrowed in curiosity.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, not stopping to ask permission. She ran through the propped-open door instead, darted through the back offices and break room and into a hardware store.

Her gaze fluttered wildly about the building. Where now? Where could she hide?

The black sedan flew past the front windows of the store. They knew she’d come this way. Now what did she do?

She crouched down, waiting until the car disappeared.

Then she sprinted out the front door and toward the opposite end of the row of shops. What store had that other delivery truck been stopped behind? She pictured the design on the truck. Pastries.

Taking a guess, she slipped inside a drug store, running until she reached the back.

“Hey, what are you doing?” A man in a cashier’s smock held up a hand to stop her as she charged into the door marked “Employees Only.”

“Sorry.” She didn’t stop to hear his response. She went straight to the back door. She paused there, slowly peeking around the edge of it.

She spotted the black sedan parked haphazardly beside her car. A man jumped from the vehicle and ran in through that same delivery door and into the hardware store. It was only a matter of moments before they found her and killed her. She couldn’t let that happen.

The other delivery truck wasn’t far away. Only a few feet. The driver had packed up and was climbing into the front. That truck seemed her only hope at the moment.

She crept outside, concealed behind a Dumpster. If she ran, she might make it onto the back of the truck before the driver realized what was happening. She had to. It was her only chance.

Staying low, she slunk toward the truck. The engine started. She didn’t have much time. If she was going to make a move, it had to be now.

Lord, help me.

She lunged toward the back door. Her hand connected with the handle.

It opened. Praise God, it opened.

She swung into the back of the truck, colliding with a rack full of prepackaged donuts and cupcakes. She closed the door just as the man in black exited the hardware store.

She was going to get away, she realized.

But her heartbeat didn’t slow as she wondered if her brother and nephew would be so fortunate.

* * *

Christopher Jordan ran a hand over his face, weariness from a long, hard week of work compounding until a pulsing headache thumped at the back of his head. He’d worked too late—again. Now darkness surrounded his car as he drove the hour back to his house.

He really should buy a place closer to work. But this house had lots of memories for him, and he couldn’t give those up yet. He needed those memories now. He needed good memories to push out all of the bad ones.

He turned off the highway, and the streets became quieter, darker. Just like his soul, he thought. Ever since he returned from war, he hadn’t felt like himself.

Just how was he going to remedy that?

Good memories, he thought. He just needed to hold on to the good. That, along with his faith in God, would help to pull him through his inner turmoil.

Finally, he turned onto his street. All he could think about was getting home for the weekend, being alone and not doing anything for as long as humanly possible—which meant until Monday came and it was back to work again.

He knew his stress was from more than just his work. He’d only been back from the Middle East for three months, and memories of the place still haunted him. Every night, nightmares jolted him awake. Too many images stained his mind. It seemed as if they’d been imprinted on his soul, and for the rest of his life he’d carry the burden of his time deployed.

He’d gotten out of the military, taken a job as a training specialist at the private security contracting firm Iron, Incorporated, also known as Eyes. He taught tactical training, such as sharpshooting and use of force to law-enforcement groups that came to Eyes for instruction. Eyes worked with both local law-enforcement communities, as well as the Department of Defense, in training personnel, developing programs and equipment, and for other special assignments.