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The knife edged closer to Fiona's skin, the threat of steel against flesh palpable in the chill night air. Jake's finger hovered over the trigger, his resolve crystallizing with grim finality. He couldn't wait any longer—not if he wanted Fiona to survive. But then he exchanged a look with Fiona, and saw not fear in her eyes, but determination. He knew that look—she was about to do something. She needed him to distract Gregory.
Subtly as he could, Jake nodded, hoping that he understood what she was thinking.
"Your mother, she was a cop, right?" Jake asked. His words were a gamble, a desperate attempt to catch Gregory off-guard.
The question hit its mark. "What?" Gregory blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Why does that—"
Jake pressed on, seizing the opportunity. "She was a good cop. Honest. Hardworking."
Gregory squeezed Fiona tighter, his gaze darting between her and Jake. "No more talk," he growled, panic edging into his voice.
In that moment, Fiona moved. She thrust her elbow into Gregory's ribs with all the force she could muster. The sudden attack caught him by surprise. The knife slipped from his hand as he let out a startled grunt—but not before hacking a slice at Fiona’s neck. Jake's heart hammered in his chest as he watched Fiona gasp, a hand flying to her neck. A thin line of red seeped between her fingers against her pale skin, sending a wave of panic through him. She wobbled on unsteady legs, eyes wide with shock and pain.
Time slowed to a crawl. Jake's training kicked in, muscle memory guiding his actions. The gun roared, its report shattering the silence, a counterpoint to the sudden widening of Gregory's eyes.
The bullet found its mark with unerring precision, a small hole blossoming between Gregory's shocked gaze. His body crumpled to the ground like a puppet with severed strings, the knife clattering from his slackened grip onto the frost-covered grass.
Fiona stumbled forward as Gregory's hold vanished, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Jake moved instinctively, catching her before she could fall. He kept his gun trained on Gregory's still form, even as relief and horror warred within him. Justice and vengeance melded into a bitter cocktail that offered no satisfaction—only the cold acknowledgment of necessity.
"Fiona!" Jake's voice was a strangled shout as he rushed over, discarding his weapon in the snow. He reached her side just as she began to sway dangerously, guiding her gently to the ground.
His hands shook as he pressed them to her throat, trying to stop the warm blood that now stained her curly red hair.
"Stay with me, Red," he urged, scanning the darkness for help. "This is Agent Tucker, I need immediate medical assistance at the Dalton property!" His words tumbled out, fractured by urgency, as he keyed the call into his earpiece. The night seemed to swallow his pleas, giving back only the eerie silence of the winter chill.
Her breaths came fast and shallow, the mist they formed dissipating quickly in the frigid air. Jake locked eyes with her, willing strength into her fragile form. "You're going to be okay, you hear me?" His voice cracked, betraying the terror that gripped him.
Fiona tried to speak, but only a faint whisper escaped her lips. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting against the weight that threatened to pull them closed. Jake's reassurances became a mantra, each word a lifeline cast into the growing despair.
"Help is coming, just hold on." He applied pressure to her wound, her lifeblood warm against the icy bite of the night. In the distance, the wail of sirens began to slice through the quiet, growing louder with every second. He clung to the sound, to Fiona, to the hope that rescue was moments away.
"Stay with me, Fiona." His voice steadied as he repeated the plea, every bit of his being focused on her survival. Around them, lights flashed and voices called out, the surreal blur of emergency responders converging on their location. Jake held on tighter, the world narrowing to the space where he knelt, holding the woman he loved, as everything else faded away.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Fiona's eyelids fluttered open, revealing a harsh white ceiling. Her throat ached as she shifted in the stiff hospital bed. Bandages wrapped tightly around her neck felt like a second skin, uncomfortable but necessary. The sterile scent of antiseptics invaded her nostrils, a sharp reminder of where she was. Memories of the night before lingered at the edge of her consciousness, hazy and fragmented like a nightmare she couldn't fully recall.
"Ms. Red," a voice broke through her disorientation. Fiona turned her head slightly, wincing at the pull of tender skin. A doctor, clad in pale blue scrubs, stood beside her with a clipboard in hand. His face was a mask of professional concern, eyes scanning her vitals on a nearby monitor.
"You're incredibly lucky," he said, his tone even but carrying an undercurrent of gravity. "The knife... it came dangerously close. Any deeper, and it would have severed your jugular vein."
She processed his words slowly, each syllable heavy with meaning. Lucky. She almost laughed at the irony. An FBI agent, freshly minted yet nearly joining the victims she sought to avenge. But there was no time for self-pity; she was alive, spared by mere millimeters from a fate she had seen all too often in her line of work.
The doctor continued to explain, detailing the delicate procedures done to save her life, but Fiona's thoughts drifted. She imagined the orb-weaver spiders, silent witnesses to violence and death, much like she had been throughout her career. Even now, their silken threads seemed to connect the fragments of her past and present, weaving a pattern that led her to this moment.
Survival. It wasn't just about living through the night. It was about piecing together the puzzles left behind by those who had succumbed to darkness. Fiona knew that better than anyone. With Gregory Dalton dead, the questions that gnawed at her were momentarily silenced, replaced by the raw reality of her own mortality.
"Rest now," the doctor advised, stepping back as the machines beeped rhythmically around her. "You've been through a significant trauma. It's important to let your body heal."
As he walked away, leaving her alone with the steady pulse of the heart monitor, Fiona closed her eyes. She breathed in deeply, the scent of antiseptics grounding her to the here and now. There would be time for answers, for closure. But for now, she clung to the doctor's words.
Incredibly lucky.
Yes, she thought, she was. Not just because the blade missed its lethal mark, but because she had something to wake up for—a purpose that reached beyond the pain and the sterile white walls. She had a chance to continue her search for truth, and for that, she was truly grateful.
The click of the closing door signaled the doctor's exit, and in the same breath, her parents burst into the hospital room. Their faces were canvases of conflicting emotions—relief painted over a base coat of worry. Without hesitation, they enveloped Fiona in a tight embrace; their arms felt like the walls of the morgue back home, cold yet oddly comforting.
"Sweetheart, we're so sorry for all you’ve been through," her mother's voice trembled like the delicate legs of a daddy longlegs. "We should have known, should have realized how dangerous your job can be."
