One ran for the jet.
Another dove behind the box truck.
Grant never saw what happened next.
He was already moving.
The world narrowed to one thing.
Izzy.
She stood frozen halfway to the aircraft, eyes wide as chaos erupted around her.
One of the men lunged for her.
Grant hit him like a freight train.
The impact drove both men sideways onto the pavement.
The kidnapper slammed hard against the runway and lost his grip.
Grant was on him before he could recover.
A fist.
An elbow.
Then deputies were there, dragging the man away.
"Grant!"
Izzy's voice.
He spun.
She was standing ten feet away, shaking, terrified, tears already spilling down her face.
He dropped to one knee and slashed through the plastic ties. They snapped open with a sharp, ugly crack. Then she was in his arms.
He didn't just hold her; he anchored her. As his calloused hands slid over her skin, the familiar, sandpaper grit of his palms grounded her against the cold panic of the runway. His arms locked around her—fully and hard—as if he could shieldher from the world with his own chest. Izzy buried her face against him, trembling so violently he could feel every hitch in her breathing.
Grant closed his eyes briefly against her hair. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed roughly against the top of her head. “Thank God.”
* * *
Across the strip, two deputies dragged Cal clear of the truck, shoving him behind a patrol unit and into someone else’s line of sight.
He twisted once against their grip and saw her—Izzy folded against Grant like she’d finally found gravity.
Around them: shouting, sirens, weapons, running footsteps, the screaming whine of jet engines.
But for one second, none of it mattered.
Izzy clung to him tightly, breathing him in like safety itself.
Then her eyes opened against his chest.
Across the strip, Burke stood beside one of the patrol units, watching them.
