The Survivor - Cristin Harber Page 0,1
nanny. They moved fluidly and reached the main level of the three-story structure without seeing signs that anyone lived in the home. Not a single personal touch or stray pair of shoes.
The well-appointed main floor showed that someone had spent lavishly on furnishings, but it still felt cold and unwelcoming.
They regrouped at the base of a marble staircase that wrapped from the formal entryway to the next landing as though its only job were to showcase a chandelier dripping with diamonds and crystal.
“Bet no one gets to play ball in the house,” Liam muttered.
A house wasn’t a home without football. At least that was what Hagan had been taught. He wondered if the kid had been abducted with the same calculations that the estate’s furnishings had been acquired with. He couldn’t imagine how life would’ve been if his parents treated Hagan and his brother and sister like a possession instead of a person.
The team summited the stairs and spread out, weapons up. Room by room, they swept until only one bedroom remained.
“Where’s the nanny?” Hagan asked.
Chance lifted a shoulder and flanked the last door. “Let’s find out.”
“Great.” Liam took the other side. “Sounds more like a guard.”
Hagan agreed, ready for whatever they’d find on the other side of the door. He twisted the knob and pushed ahead. Chance and Liam flanked his sides. Hagan immediately sighted a large bed, and the sleeping boy half-under a blanket still clutching a Nintendo Switch.
Hagan crept into the bedroom more suited for diplomatic guests than a kid. Then he saw the nanny. She dozed in a wingback chair with a quilt over her lap. In a perfect world, they wouldn’t have had to disturb her. But the world was far from perfect. That was why he had a job that paid the big bucks. To fix where society failed—and to pay down debts that threatened to bankrupt his family.
They spread out. Chance stepped toward the woman. Liam moved to the boy’s bed. Hagan positioned between the boy and his nanny. Short of tranquilizing the kid, their consensus had been to quietly explain who they were and why they were there. Their target was old enough to understand and, hopefully, welcome their arrival.
The nanny kicked the quilt off and lifted a shaky grip on a handgun. “I will shoot you.”
So much for not waking the nanny. Hagan turned his attention to her, trusting that Liam and Chance had him covered, and in his most trustworthy Arabic, said, “You don’t need to do that.”
He could see that she didn’t want this responsibility, that she was unfamiliar with the gun in her hand. That didn’t make the situation any safer. “We want to bring the boy to his family.”
“You need to leave,” she responded in her native tongue with more force. Still, the weapon wavered.
Hagan maintained a calm detachment as though he wasn’t her intended bull’s eye. Sheets rustled behind him, and the boy woke with a yelp. Hagan shifted to see both the woman and child, then spoke in English, “Your mother sent us. We work for her.”
“You need to leave,” the nanny interrupted.
“She wants you to come home,” Hagan continued.
“I must shoot you,” she pleaded. “You must leave, or I must shoot the gun—” Her voice cracked. “Go.”
“I want to go home,” the boy cried.
Tears trickled down the nanny’s face. “This is my job. I must watch out for the boy. Protect him.”
“We have the same orders,” Hagan replied.
She wept. The handgun pulled at her hands as though it were as heavy as the concrete blocks that supported this house.
“I want to leave,” the boy cried. “Please!”
“We both know he shouldn’t be here,” Hagan said.
Her lip quivered.
“Do you have children?” He holstered his weapon in a show of good faith. Her anguish reminded him of his own mother, of everything that she had faced. “What if you woke up and couldn’t talk to your child? Couldn’t comfort—”
“I do not want to do this.”
“I know.” He gestured for her to stand down. “You don’t have to.”
The reluctance to carry out a task that she wasn’t capable of pulled her into the chair. Liam swept the boy and his covers off the far side of the bed. The nanny still had the gun, and Chance had his aim trained on her. Hagan held up his hands and approached her. It didn’t take much effort to disarm her, and she fell into his arms, apologizing, explaining how she didn’t want this for the child.
In the distance, Hagan heard