Page 24 of Noel Secrets
He wove through the market, shoving through the crowd, hoping the men didn’t spot him. The maze had two more rows to go. His investigative brain, usually razor-sharp under pressure, fuzzed with one thought:Jayda is in danger.
The men stepped out, one from the right and one from the left. They blocked him behind a row of wreath stalls, half-hidden in the glow of white lights. One man lunged, reaching inside his coat. Michael reacted without thinking—fist slamming into his jaw. The man reeled, colliding with a stack of crates, andevergreen wreaths tumbled everywhere, pine needles flying like shrapnel.
The second man came at him harder, swinging low. Michael dodged, took a punch to the ribs, and grunted. He wasn’t green. He’d been in tight spots chasing cartel money and human traffickers, but these men weren’t street thugs. They were professionals—trained, disciplined and dangerous.
Michael kicked the first man square in the knee when he tried to rise. The crack was audible. His scream louder. One down. But the second had a knife now, the glint catching the Christmas lights above.
Michael ducked as the blade swiped, the air whooshing past his face. He grabbed a string of twinkling lights from the stall and yanked. With the wire tangled around the man’s wrist, the knife clattered to the ground.
Michael punched him once, twice, until the man slumped.
Chest heaving, he stumbled backward, adrenaline flooding him. The wreath vendor screamed at him that he was calling the cops.
“Do it!” Michael replied.
Somewhere nearby, carolers sangO Holy Night. The contrast made bile rise in his throat. He staggered back to the streets and alleys. Each of them empty.
No Jayda.
Panic iced his veins.
“Jayda!”
Nothing.
He ran, scanning alleys, crowds, every shadow. She was gone. They’d taken her, or she was still cornered. Either way, time was running out.
He shoved through a group of photographer elves with their Santa. Children gathered to meet the big guy, and here Michael was, leading danger to them. For one sharp second he thoughtof Simon’s words—What about Michael’s safety?—and almost laughed bitterly. He’d thrown himself into this willingly. And now innocent people could pay for his choices.
Michael spun in the street, frantic, needing to separate from the crowds. Then—a strange movement far past the ice rink. A tall man dragged another person toward the glow of the winter fairground. The other person slumped in the crook of his arm. A set of black curls moved Michael’s feet in their direction.
Jayda.
There were masses of people between them.
Michael bolted, and sharp cold air burned his throat. The Chicago air had teeth tonight—winter biting deep and clinging to the lining of his lungs. Snowflakes drifted lazily under the strings of Christmas lights crisscrossing Millennium Park, painting the scene deceptively festive when a woman was being kidnapped. Couples twirled hand in hand on the ice rink. Children shrieked with joy as they clung to their parents and learned to skate. The music from a brass quartet echoed under the towering Christmas tree nearby.
A scene of holiday perfection.
Except Jayda barely moved in the man’s grip. She appeared lifeless.
Michael shoved through the crowd at the edge of the rink. The fastest way to them would be to cross the rink. His throat tightened. He couldn’t shout, not yet. Panic would spread, and panic meant Jayda could get hurt before he reached her. He needed to get across the ice and cut the man off from leaving the park.
Michael shoved a teenager aside, muttering an apology, and vaulted onto the ice in his boots. Bad idea. His feet shot out as if he’d just stepped on a banana peel. He hit the ice flat on his back, the cold jolting straight through his spine.
Great. Smooth. Real heroic.
Gritting his teeth, he scrambled upright, wobbling like a newborn deer. His leather boots had zero grip on sheer ice. The Christmas carols booming over the speakers made a mockery of his desperate stagger. People laughed. A little girl zipped past him with the grace of an Olympian, giggling, “You’re supposed to wear skates!”
“Yeah, thanks for the tip,” he muttered, eyes locked on Jayda.
She was halfway to the gate now. The man leaned in close, speaking in her ear. Her expression was set tight, but her eyes darted all around her—she was conscious. So why wasn’t she fighting the man?
“I’m here,” Michael whispered, though she couldn’t hear him. His chest burned as he forced himself forward. Every step was a battle between balance and disaster. He slipped once, twice—his arms windmilling wildly—but each fall only made him angrier.
Come on. Hurry up.Maybe this wasn’t the fastest way across.
Finally, he gave up his dignity altogether. He dropped into a half-crouch, using the palms of his hands to push off the ice, sliding forward in awkward spurts. He must’ve looked like a malfunctioning seal, but it got him closer.
