Jenna’s Protector (Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists: CHARLIE Team #4)

30. Carter

THIRTY

Carter

The city lights blur as I weave through the evening traffic, my fingers tapping an impatient beat on the steering wheel. A glance at the clock confirms what the crawling cars make painfully obvious—I’m late.

I press Jenna’s speed dial for the third time, my heart quickening with each unanswered ring.

“Come on, pick up.”

I will my plea to somehow reach her, to pull her to the phone, but the rings give way to her voicemail. The sound of her bright, recorded voice sends a chill down my spine.

Hey, it’s Jenna! I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message, and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Thanks!

The beep sounds, and I end the call with a harsh jab, a sick feeling twisting in my gut. It’s not like her not to answer.

I drum my fingers on the wheel, my earlier excitement soured by a growing unease. The lead we uncovered today could be the break we’ve been waiting for, the key to unraveling the tangled web of Jenna’s past and bringing the bastards behind it to justice.

I’ve been buzzing with impatience to share the news with her, to finally offer some hope after all the dead ends and dark revelations .

But now, as the minutes tick by and the traffic crawls, that urgency takes on a desperate edge. I try to rationalize her silence—she could be in the shower or on the other line. She could have left her phone in the other room, but each explanation rings hollow, drowned out by the alarm bells sounding in my head.

I think of the shadows that have haunted her eyes these past weeks, the weight of the memories she’s had to dredge up. I think of the fear that’s clung to her like a second skin, the nagging sense that her past is never far behind. It’s a darkness I’ve sworn to protect her from, a burden I’ve vowed to help her carry.

But right now, stuck in an endless sea of taillights, I feel helpless.

“Damn it, Jenna, pick up.”

I swipe to redial, pressing the phone to my ear as if sheer force of will can make her answer, but her voicemail greets me again.

I end the call and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. My stomach churns with a fear I can’t name. This isn’t right.

Something’s wrong. I feel it in my bones.

I clench my jaw and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, urging the car forward through the gaps in traffic. The lead, the case, the justice we’ve been chasing—none of it matters now. All that matters is finding Jenna, holding her, and seeing for myself that she’s safe.

I send up a silent prayer to a God I’m not sure I believe in, a desperate plea for the woman who’s come to mean more to me than I ever thought possible.

The car leaps forward as the traffic finally breaks, but the sick feeling in my gut only grows.

I’m coming, Jenna. I’m coming.

And God help anyone who stands in my way.

I pull up to her apartment, my heart pounding in time with the rapid-fire rhythm of my fingers on the steering wheel. The building looms before me, dark windows staring down like accusing eyes.

I’m out of the car before the engine fully stops, and the slam of the door echoes in the quiet street. The cool night air does little to calm the heat of my anxiety as I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps a discordant beat in the oppressive stillness .

At her door, I pause, my fist raised to knock. A sudden fear grips me, cold and sharp, lodging in my throat.

What if she’s not here?

What if something happened?

Doubt swirls in my mind, a dizzying spiral of worst-case scenarios. I push them aside and knock, the sound harsh and loud in the silence.

“Jenna? It’s me.”

I strain my ears for any sign of movement, any hint of her presence, but there’s nothing. Just the heavy stillness and the pounding of my own heart.

I knock again, louder this time, more insistent.

“Jenna? Are you there?”

My voice sounds hoarse, even to my own ears, rough with a fear I can’t quite control. I press my ear to the door, hoping to catch a footfall, a rustle, anything, but the apartment remains silent, a tomb-like quiet that sends an icy shiver down my spine.

With fumbling hands, I pull out the key she gave me, the one for emergencies. It feels heavy and cold in my palm, a physical manifestation of the dread settling in my gut. I hesitate for a moment, torn between respecting her privacy and the overwhelming need to know she’s safe.

Need wins out.

I slide the key into the lock, the click of the tumblers sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. I push the door open, half expecting to see her standing there, a puzzled smile on her face, asking me what the fuss is about.

But the apartment is empty.

Dark.

The air feels stale as if it’s been untouched for hours. I step inside, my footsteps muffled by the carpet, and flick on the light.

“Jenna? It’s Carter. Are you home?”

I move through the apartment, a growing sense of wrongness prickling at my skin. There’s no jacket draped over the back of a chair. No keys on the side table.

No Max .

The fear that’s been building in my chest expands, seeping into every crevice of my being. I check the bathroom, the bedroom, and even the closets as if she might be hiding inside them.

As if this might all be some misunderstanding.

But she’s not here.

The realization hits me like a physical blow, staggering in its certainty. Jenna is gone, and I have no idea where.

I stand in the middle of her living room, my mind racing, trying to piece together what could have happened. Did she leave of her own accord?

Was she taken?

The possibilities swirl in my head, each more terrifying than the last.

I pull out my phone and dial her number again, but it goes straight to voicemail. The sound of her recorded voice is a cruel reminder of her absence.

I end the call and look around, really look, trying to see the apartment through the eyes of a detective.

Is there a sign of struggle?

No.

Everything looks normal, undisturbed. Just an empty home. Which means—she never made it here.

I turn on my heels and head for the door, my mind already racing ahead to the next steps.

The café.

I’ll check there. Maybe she’s lost track of time? Maybe she’s knee-deep in inventories or supply orders? Even as I cling to that shred of hope, I know it’s a lie.

Something is wrong here.

Terribly, terribly wrong.

The night air hits me like a slap to the face as I exit the building, but I barely feel it. All I feel is the cold knot of fear in my stomach and the burning determination in my veins.

I peel out of the parking lot, the tires of my truck screeching against the asphalt. The sound is jarring, but it barely registers over the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears .

The streets are a blur as I speed toward the café. I push the speed limit, daring any cop to stop me.

“Please be there.” My words are a fervent prayer falling from my lips.

I don’t know who I’m pleading with.

God?

The universe?

Jenna herself?

All I know is I need her to be okay, need it with a desperation that borders on physical pain.

Each red light is agony.

Each stop sign is torture.

My fingers pick up their drumming on the steering wheel, an erratic beat that matches the racing of my thoughts. Scenarios flash through my mind, each one worse than the last.

Jenna hurt.

Jenna taken.

Jenna, beyond my reach.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the images. I’m overreacting. She’s fine. She has to be. I cling to that thought like a lifeline.

Marlowe’s Café comes into view, but as I pull up, all hope withers and dies. The windows are dark, the usually inviting atmosphere cold and forbidding.

The café looks wrong.

I’m out of the car in a flash, the night air cool against my skin. I rush to the door, my hand shaking as I fumble with the keys. The lock clicks open, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness.

I push inside, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully, incongruously.

“Jenna?”

My voice echoes in the empty space, bouncing off the walls and coming back to me as if in mockery. I stride to the counter, my eyes scanning every corner, every shadow.

But she’s not here.

The fear that’s been building in my chest expands, seeping into my veins like ice water. This isn’t like her .

I pull out my phone, my fingers numb, and dial her number— again .

The ringing fills the empty café, echoing off the walls, but there’s no answer—just the cold, impersonal click of her voicemail.

I end the call, my hand clenching around the phone until the edges bite into my palm.

Think, Carter. Think. What’s your next move?

I take a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs, and try to focus.

Okay. Okay. One step at a time. Retrace her steps. You’re a detective, damn it. Detect.

I look around the café again, this time with a critical eye. Is there anything out of place? Any sign of a struggle, a clue to what might have happened?

No.

Everything is neat and orderly. Just as she left it. Just as she always leaves it.

Except for one thing.

Two mugs sitting on the counter.

They’re both half-full of tea.

Someone else was here.

With uncooperative fingers, I fumble for my phone, scrolling through contacts until I find Walt’s number. The call connects on the second ring, and Walt’s voice fills my ear, a mix of surprise and confusion.

“Carter? What’s up?”

“Jenna. Is she with you?” I force the words out, each one feeling like lead on my tongue.

There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches for an eternity.

“No, she told me to head out early. Said you were on your way.” Walt’s tone shifts, concern bleeding into his words. “What’s going on?”

The ground beneath my feet tilts as if the world is spinning off its axis.

“I can’t find her.” I rake a hand through my hair, trying to focus past the pounding in my head .

Walt is silent for a moment, the weight of the situation sinking in, and then he curses.

“Shit, Carter. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave. She made me go. Said you’d be there in just a couple of minutes.” His words tumble out in a rush, laced with panic and regret. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have listened. I should’ve stayed with her.”

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. It’s not Walt’s fault. Jenna can be stubborn when she sets her mind to something.

“When was the last time you saw her? Did anything seem off? Out of the ordinary?”

Walt takes a deep breath as if trying to collect his thoughts.

“It wasn’t that long ago. Ten, twenty minutes? She seemed fine. A little tired, maybe, but nothing unusual. She was closing up the café.”

I should’ve gone to the café first, but with traffic delaying me, I assumed she already went home. I could have missed her between here and there.

My mind races with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last.

“Where are you?” Walt asks.

“At the café. It’s empty. No sign of a struggle, but…” I trail off, unable to voice the fears clawing at my throat. Walt seems to understand anyway.

“Fuck, Carter. I’m on my way. We’ll find her.”

It’s a plan, a course of action. Something to focus on beyond the buzzing static of panic in my head.

“I’m going to retrace her steps. I’m assuming she walked home.”

“I’ll be there in five.”

“Copy that.” I end the call, my hand clenching around the phone like it’s a lifeline.

Retrace her steps. Right. I can do that. I have to do that.

I push off from the wall and start walking, my feet moving of their own accord. The night air is cool against my skin, but I barely feel it. All I feel is the pounding of my heart and the sick, twisting fear in my gut.

Jenna’s apartment isn’t far from the café, a walk she’s made countless times. I try to see the street through her eyes, to imagine her footsteps on the pavement.

Did she feel safe? Did she know something was wrong? The questions swirl in my mind, taunting and relentless.

I quicken my pace, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Come on, Jenna. Where are you?

A cat slinks across the deserted road, disappearing into the shadows. A car passes, headlights cutting through the darkness, but there’s no sign of Jenna.

No sign at all.

I round the corner, and my heart stops.

There. A shape on the pavement. Dark and unmoving. For a moment, my mind refuses to process what my eyes are telling me.

It can’t be. It can’t.

But as I draw closer, the shape resolves into a form I know all too well.

No. No, no, no.

I break into a run, my feet pounding against the pavement.