Chapter 8 - Catching the Falling WorldTime seemed to slow down to an agonizing, crawl-like freeze.
I saw the blue bundle spinning through the air, tumbling away from the metal stairs toward the hard, unforgiving asphalt of the runway.
My maternal instinct—raw, primal, and unstoppable—overrode every single thought of self-preservation, pain, and exhaustion. I didn't think about my torn stitches. I didn't think about the cold. I didn't think about the armed men or the crashing jet.
I threw myself forward, diving through the pouring rain like a goalkeeper lunging for a championship-winning ball.
Thud.
My body slammed hard against the wet concrete, scraping my knees, elbows, and hands raw. But my arms locked tightly around the small, warm bundle, pulling it desperately against my chest as I rolled across the tarmac.
A soft, muffled cry echoed from inside the blanket.
“Wah... waah!”
Tears burst from my eyes, mixing with the rain pouring down my face. I pulled back the edge of the blanket, revealing a tiny, squalling face with tufts of dark hair and miniature fingers curling into the air.
“I’ve got you,” I sobbed, kissing her tiny forehead over and over again. “I’ve got you, my baby girl. Mommy is right here.”
Behind me, absolute chaos erupted.
Federal agents swarmed the staircase of the private jet. Marshal Vance lunged forward, tackling the man in the suit before he could hit the button on his remote, slamming him face-first onto the wet metal steps and slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists.
Other tactical agents rushed past, securing the cabin doors and hauling out the pilot and two co-conspirators in handcuffs.
On the ground a few yards away, Ethan was still curled in a pathetic ball on the pavement, weeping uncontrollably, completely abandoned by everyone.
Marshal Vance jogged over through the rain, his expression tense, holding a medical blanket and a secure transport carrier. He knelt beside me, checking the baby over with practiced gentleness.
“Mrs. Miller... are you alright? Is the infant safe?” the marshal asked, his voice laced with genuine awe.
“She’s safe,” I whispered, clutching my second daughter against my heart, finally complete. “She’s breathing. She’s perfect.”
Marshal Vance nodded firmly, then looked back toward Ethan, who was being hauled to his feet by two federal agents, his clothes soaked, his face smeared with mud and tears.
“Agent,” I said, looking up at Marshal Vance with eyes cold as winter ice.
“Yes, Mrs. Miller?”
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“Make sure my husband gets a front-row seat in the federal penitentiary,” I said quietly, rocking my baby in the pouring rain. “Because he’s going to need a lot of time to think about the family he threw away for a paycheck.”
Marshal Vance gave a solemn nod. “Done.”
