PART 10 – The Protector's Sacrifice
The world seemed to move in slow motion. I saw Daniel on his knees, one hand pressed tightly against his bleeding side, his face contorted in pain. Blood seeped through the fabric of his coat faster than snow melts on a warm windshield.
I didn't think about Vance anymore. I didn't think about the bullets. I ran to Daniel, dropped to my knees beside him, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders.
"Daniel! Stay with me!" I sobbed, tears blurring my vision.
Vance walked slowly toward us, breathing heavily, pointing his gun at us with a trembling hand. Blood dripped from his broken nose onto his leather jacket. A monstrous smile appeared on his face.
"It's over," Vance said in a raspy, sinister voice. "You should have just stayed home, old woman. You should have stuck to your bills."
He aimed the weapon straight at my forehead.
With a final surge of strength, Daniel looked up at Vance. "Leave... leave her out of this, Vance. You have me. Take the notebook... let her go."
"No witnesses left," Vance said coldly. His finger slowly curled around the trigger.
At that exact moment, a voice echoed through the vault room—not from outside, but from the loudspeaker system on the ceiling.
"FBI! Drop your weapon! Now!"
Vance froze, looking up at the speakers in confusion.
Before he could react, the steel emergency door behind me was rammed open with a massive crash. A team of heavily armed agents in black gear with large yellow FBI letters on their chests swarmed into the room.
"WEAPON DOWN! ON THE GROUND! NOW!" multiple voices screamed simultaneously. Red laser dots covered Vance's body.
Vance looked around, realizing he was surrounded. His eyes twisted with rage and despair. He hesitated for a single second, contemplating firing anyway, but an FBI sniper reacted with lightning speed.
BANG!
A single shot struck Vance in his right forearm. His gun clattered to the floor and he collapsed to the ground, groaning in agony. The agents tackled him and the remaining henchman, slamming them into handcuffs immediately.
A female FBI agent with a tight ponytail ran over to us and knelt beside Daniel. "Apply pressure to the wound! We need paramedics! Now!"
"Daniel... hold on, please," I begged, holding his face between my stiff hands.
Daniel looked at me. His lips were turning blue again, just like that icy winter morning in 1981 when he stepped onto my bus as a nine-year-old boy. But in his eyes, the same fire still burned.
He took my hand and pressed the old, worn gloves he had kept in his pocket all this time into my palm.
"I... I always kept them, Arthur," he whispered, barely audible. "They always reminded me... that there is warmth in the world."
"Keep talking, Daniel! Don't close your eyes!" I cried.
"I'm sorry... about Thomas..." he stammered. "He really loved you..."
His eyes glazed over and his head fell heavily into the FBI agent's lap.
"He's losing consciousness! Where is that stretcher?!" the agent shouted into her radio.
Two paramedics rushed into the vault room with a stretcher and medical equipment. They quickly lifted Daniel onto the gurney and began CPR. The beeping sound of the heart monitor filled the steel room.
The female FBI agent placed a hand on my shoulder. "Mrs. Van Dijk? I'm Special Agent Miller. We've been tracking this case for months. Daniel gave us the exact location of the vault right before he entered your house."
I stared at the blood on my hands and at the old gloves I held tightly.
"Is he going to survive?" I asked in a dull, broken voice.
Agent Miller looked at the paramedics hurriedly wheeling Daniel out through the emergency door. "He's lost a lot of blood, ma'am. We need to pray."
