Mitch moved left.
“Clear!” he heard from downstairs.
The right play was Lescheva ordered his men to move out, leaving the kids.
Leaving the kids.
Mitch hoped to Christ they’d moved out and left the kids.
Standing beside the first closed door on the upstairs landing, he threw it open then moved into the doorway, gun up, flashlight up.
In the corner there was a twin bed.
In the corner of the bed, back to the wall, there was Bud.
Asleep with her head on his thigh was Billie.
“Got them!” Mitch called. His eyes scanned the otherwise empty room, he dropped his gun and moved swiftly to the bed. “Here now, Bud. Safe. Yeah?”
Mitch kept his light low but shining on the children. Both kids were healthy, clean, in their pajamas. Bud had pulled a blanket over Billie. No blood, no visible injuries.
Thank Christ.
Thank Christ.
Mitch holstered his gun and arrived at the bed realizing Bud hadn’t spoken and Mitch’s eyes stopped scanning for injuries and focused on the boy.
“You came,” Bud whispered.
“Of course, buddy,” Mitch whispered back.
“You came,” Bud repeated so soft Mitch almost didn’t hear him.
Then Mitch watched the tear fall from his eye and slide down his cheek.
A burn hit his chest and Mitch found it hard to breathe.
He locked it down.
No blood. No visible injuries. They were safe.
Safe.
Now it was time to go home.
“Let’s get you home,” Mitch whispered, reached out and carefully lifted a dead to the world Billie to cradle her in his arms as he felt Slim enter the room behind him.
He straightened and Bud scrambled off the bed.
“Hey, Bud, you good?” Slim asked.
Mitch looked down at him and watched him nod.
“Wanna take my hand?” Slim asked, extending his own.
Bud looked at it.
Then he lifted his hand closest to Mitch and Mitch felt his fingers curl into the belt on his jeans.