Alle Kapitel von Redemption’s Sweet Surprise: Kapitel 81 – Kapitel 90

The gravel of the front drive crunched under our feet, a too-loud sound in the tense quiet. Luther walked half a step ahead, his body angled slightly to shield mine. The man at the gate stood perfectly still, his hands now at his sides, the sign held against his leg. Up close, he was lean, with the worn, careful posture of someone who’d spent a lifetime trying not to be noticed. His grey suit was inexpensive, his face a map of quiet stress lines.Marcus and another security member stood positioned on the portico, hands near their waists. Luther stopped ten feet from the iron bars.“You have thirty seconds to state your business,” Luther said, his voice carrying the full, unyielding weight of his authority.The man didn’t flinch. His eyes, a faded hazel, moved past Luther and settled on me. There was a profound, weary sadness in them. “Eleanor’s daughter. You have her eyes.” His voice was softer than expected, raspy. “My name is Leo. Leo Finch. I was your mother’s contingency.”“The ma

The Lake House wasn't a house. It was a concrete bunker dressed in cedar siding, built into a granite hillside so steep that the only access was a single-lane switchback road that seemed to disappear into the mist. The journey was made in a convoy of three black SUVs, with Keila asleep against my side in the middle vehicle, her small backpack at her feet. In the SUV ahead rode Luther and Leo Finch, an armed escort in the front seat. Behind us, Marcus and two other security members followed.No one spoke. The only sound was the swish of the tires on damp asphalt and the occasional crackle of the encrypted radio. Luther had shown Keila the medical notification, explaining it as a "supply chain problem" that his best people were fixing. She'd accepted it with a child's faith in his competence, but her small hand hadn't let go of mine since.The gates to the property were indistinguishable from the rock face, sliding open on silent hydraulics. We drove into a short, naturally-formed tunne

The darkness in the chimney tunnel was absolute. It was a thick, suffocating black that pressed against my eyes and filled my mouth with the taste of old soot and damp mortar. Keila’s small hand was a vise-grip around my fingers.“Mommy?” her whisper was a tiny, trembling thing in the void.“Shhh, baby. Just walk. Slow and quiet. One foot in front of the other.” My own voice was a ragged scrape. I reached out with my free hand, trailing it along the rough, cold brick wall to guide us. The tunnel was narrow, forcing us to walk single-file, hunched over. The air grew colder, smelling less of smoke and more of wet earth and rotting leaves.Behind us, through the thick stone, the muffled, warped sounds of argument were gone. Silence. Then, a new sound—a deep, shuddering BOOM that vibrated through the stone under our feet. Stromwell’s team. They were breaching the perimeter.Another BOOM. Closer. They weren’t at the gate; they were using explosives on the bunker’s outer defenses.“Keep mov

The world inside the feed sack was a universe of dust and dark. Keila’s even breathing was the only anchor to sanity as Cora’s truck jolted and swayed. Time lost meaning, measured only in the grind of gears and the occasional, terrifying slowdown as we passed through what I imagined were intersections or town limits.Finally, the truck turned, bumped over a rough patch, and stopped. The engine cut. Silence, then the crunch of Cora’s boots on gravel.“Wait for my knock,” her voice was a low murmur through the canvas. “Three taps.”We waited. Seconds stretched into eternities. I heard distant sounds—a bus engine idling, a car door slamming, the hollow echo of a public address system announcing a departure. The Spruce Falls depot.Three sharp taps vibrated against the metal bin.I pushed the feed sack aside and lifted the canvas flap. Cool, diesel-tinged night air flooded in. We were in a dimly lit loading bay behind the main depot building. Cora helped us out, her eyes constantly scanni

The high desert of Oregon wasn't a place, it was an atmosphere. A vast, silent exhale of sagebrush, juniper, and sky the color of a faded bruise. County Road 42 was a scratch in the earth, flanked by barbed wire and cattle guards. The Rockhound's Claim was less a store and more of a settlement: a leaning clapboard building, a scatter of rusted mining equipment, and a half-dozen aluminum trailers baking under the relentless sun. A hand-painted sign, blistered by UV, read: "Gems. Supplies. Truth."The bell over the door jangled a tired note. Inside smelled of dust, cool stone, and old coffee. Glass cases held chunks of agate, thunder eggs, and fossils. A ceiling fan turned with a slow, lazy click.A man stood behind the counter, polishing a piece of obsidian with a cloth. He was maybe seventy, lean as a whip, with a face carved from mahogany and a white mustache that hid his mouth. He wore a denim shirt and the patient, watchful stillness of a predator. This was Buck.He didn't look up.