When I leave, I only feel one thing.
Determination.
I lost my brother. I know the pain of saying good-bye to someone you love.
I won’t do it again.
It’s time to go find my goddamn bride.
Chapter Fourteen
Jemma
I passed out at some point on the plane. Apparently, head injury, stress, pregnancy simply don’t combine well. When I wake up, I’m somewhere cold and damp, but at least I’m indoors, laid out on a couple of wooden crates. I touch my head to find a bandage there.
So, whoever this is, they don’t want me to die. That’s some comfort, I guess, but who are they and what do they want? If they wanted to punish me for something, they’d be doing that. If they wanted to kill Jameson, maybe they would have gone ahead and done that too. So, I conclude, they must want to torture him. This might not be about me, about my past, at all.
It might be about Jameson’s present.
My heart breaks at the thought because it means there was something – a big something he has been hiding from me. I press my hand to my belly. I don’t want to imagine the father of my child involved in something sinister.
My head aches, but nothing I can’t handle. It’s only a bruise, and right now, I have more pressing things on my mind. I get up and find my footing and then crack the door open to see what’s on the other side.
Icy air blows, and I can see tall pine trees spreading out downwards for what could be a mile. So, I’m up in the mountains. And I probably wasn’t out for long, so I’m likely still in Alaska. Mountain peaks in the distance solidify that opinion and I bite down on my bottom lip, trying not to cry, wishing I was back on Whiskey Mountain – wishing I was home.
Two men outside the door spot me instantly, and one grabs the door and shoves it open, making me squeak in surprise.
“In,” he barks. “Wait in there.” Then he addresses the other guard. “She’s awake. I told you.”
The other guy, wearing a thick, fur-lined hood pulled up so that it obscures most of his face, glares down at me and I feel small, not for the first time. “What’s your name?” he grunts.
“Uhh,” I stammer, not sure I want to give it to him. I want to put off whatever they plan on doing for as long as possible, but I don’t know how to do that. I’m not used to dealing with strange men in the wilderness. I’m used to dealing with strange men on yachts and five-star hotels.
Still, as I wait for them to yell at me – as they surely will – I realize men like these are all the same – power-hungry, desperate to feel in control, and it hurts – knowing I am the one in the vulnerable position. Knowing that without a gun, right now, I am powerless.
I’m so tired of feeling this way.
When I was with Jameson, I felt in control of my life. My chest aches with the longing to be with him again, the man who sees me as his equal. As his forever.
“You should get back inside before you freeze from the wind.”
He goes to push me back inside, but I hold firm, even though he’s right, and I’m already shivering. I’m tired of strangers telling me what to do. “Where am I? Who are you? What do you want?”
He sighs, annoyed already, and glances at the other guard before looking back at me. “Your man, Jameson, he had a contract with us. He ended it. People don’t really just stop working for us. It doesn’t work like that. You understand?”
Tears prick at my eyes as I think about the pregnancy test, and the future I could so easily envision. Was it ever possible, to truly stay that happy? I hug myself tight. No. Jameson was one of the good guys.
Wasn’t he?
“He worked for you guys?” I ask, my voice rattling in the Alaskan wind.
“In,” the man grunts again, and this time he shoves me back so that I land on my butt, and then slams the door shut.
I’m alone with a room full of dusty crates, but at least it holds firm against the chill wind outside. It takes me a long time to warm up again, even with the door closed and my arms wrapped around myself. Even when I find a ratty, itchy blanket to wrap myself in that smells like mothballs and dirt.
I close my eyes and try to think of a way out of this, but I’m really coming up blank. My thoughts just keep settling back on the same horrible thought.
Jameson worked for these people. And these people are clearly not good people. In fact, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s a militia group of some sort. I caught glimpses of intense-looking firearms at their hips, and they are clearly efficient and organized. And not very moral.
But I’m just assuming, so I go to the door again, and realize it’s locked. I pound on it until someone on the other side pounds back and yells, “What?”
“I’m pregnant,” I yell through the door. “I’m pregnant, and you really need to let me go. I need to get to a doctor. I hit my head. I passed out.”
There’s a pause, and my heart is in my throat as I wait, pressing my ear against the door. “She’s pregnant,” he’s explaining to the other guard.
Both men laugh. Nothing more is said.
I sit back down on my crate, in the dark, musty storage room, and I’m too stunned to even cry. The man I love — the man I let myself love fully, openly, and with everything I am — is a dangerous criminal working with dangerous criminals. A user, a liar, a bad guy like all the others who abused me all my life.
They’re all the same.
And I fell for it.
Chapter Fifteen
Jameson
It’s been less than an hour since the deer fled from the clearing and in that time, it feels like my entire world has crashed and burned. I’ve searched the premises, all of the cabin, and I can’t find a trace of her – but God, she seems to be everywhere in this house. Her clothing draped on the back of chairs, her half-full mugs of tea forgotten on side tables, the flowers she cut from the clearing are in an old mason jar – this place is her home now. And I need to bring her back.
When I hear the sound of a plane touching down in the clearing nearby, I grab the gun from my drawer and stuff it in the back of my pants before going to investigate. If it’s the militia back to take more from me, I refuse to be surprised.
When I reach the clearing, allowing the foliage to give me some natural cover, I’m almost knocked over when the door opens and out strides Walker, and then his beaming wife, Waverley. Each of them is cradling a little bundle, one floral patterned and one animal patterned, and they grin up at me as I make my way through the clearing wordlessly.
Wavy takes the second newborn girl from her husband so Walker and I can clap each other on the back. I lean in and kiss her cheek, and she is flushed with happiness, pride, and sleepiness.
“Well done,” I tell her, and she gives a breathless laugh.
“Thanks.”
“She was incredible,” Walker says, wrapping his arm around his wife, grinning down at his children. “All of them were incredible. My girls.”
“You’re back pretty early. Just wanted to come home?” I ask.
“Well,” Wavy says, looking back up at me, “the girls are just so healthy.”
“We did get homesick,” Walker agrees. “Wanted to show the babies their home.”
It’s beautiful watching them, stunned by the perfection of their own lives right now, but at the same time, I have to admit it kind of hurts. I can’t help thinking about Jemma, about our baby inside her, about our future and her safety hanging in the balance. I rub my face.
“And I couldn’t stand being there knowing that Jemma was here,” Waverley admits. She gets up on her tiptoes, still smiling, and glances around behind me. “She here, or back at the cabin?”
I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands, my arms, or how to stand. “Wavy…” I begin.
“Can’t wait to meet this sister,” Walker adds, still riding a high, unaware of the sudden shift in the atmosphere. His wife’s smile has fallen. She doesn’t know what has happened, but she knows it’s not good
.
“Jameson?” she says, worry knitting her brows.
“The guys I work for… Well, I’m pretty sure it was them, anyway. I told them I wasn’t going to do any more work for them.” I run a hand over my beard, hating to admit this next part. It’s all still so raw. “They got mad, and they came and took Jemma.”
Waverly is stunned, and Walker looks confused. “They just took her? On a seaplane? Where?” she asks. Her voice is strangely calm, but her grip on her babies has tensed. “And why?”
“Where, I think I know. Their headquarters is up in the mountains. Over that way.” I orient myself and point. As for why? I don’t know. Out of anger, revenge, reputation. “They can’t get around that I broke a contract with them with no consequences.” I almost tell her that Jemma might be pregnant — is pregnant — but I stop myself. That’s her news to tell when she gets home safely and reunites with her sister, finally. And they really do deserve a hell of a reunion.
“You’re going after them, aren’t you?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course, I am.” But I hang around and wait for her to chew me out for being reckless. She wants to, I can tell, but her worry for her sister seems to be winning out.
“Walker,” she says, her voice hitched with worry. “Maybe you should go with him—”
“No,” I interrupt. I take a couple of steps back. “You guys need to go home, rest, and be happy. You deserve it, and you’ve earned it. This is my fight, so don’t worry about me. I’m going to win it.”
They both protest a little, but what are they going to do with armfuls of babies? Chase me down and tackle me? I wish them the best, then apologize for running off so soon, and head to my plane, leaving my friends behind.
I have to do this alone.
* * *
I always knew that tangling with these people would lead to nothing good. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew that at some point, I’d have to fight them because I’m on autopilot as I get ready to leave. I’ve had a go-bag prepared for a while, checked yearly to make sure nothing’s gone bad, but I add a few extra things to it that I might need. Things I didn’t exactly procure legally, which is precisely what got us into this mess, but I’m resigned to it for now.
This is my last foray into the dark and shady sides of life. I’m about to be a father, after all, and I plan on making a home for my wife and children that is safe and happy. The kind of life Jemma deserves.
Still, I load up my Glock, set up a belt of flashbangs and smoke grenades, load up a shotgun, and sling it over my back, feeling the adrenaline kick in. These people hired me for a reason, and now they’re going to get a handy reminder of what that was.
I’m flying the seaplane with pure, righteous fury roaring in my ears. How fucking dare they do this to her? She had nothing to do with this. If they were real men, they’d turn up at my door and punch me in the damn throat. Hell, even unload a gun in my direction. It was me, after all, who broke the rules. It was me who disrespected them, knowing full well in the back of my mind that they wouldn’t like that.
It’s me they should have targeted. But they didn’t. And now I’m not going to pull any punches.
It does occur to me, of course it does, that they are waiting for me up there. It doesn’t make any difference, though. If true evil exists, that’s what these people are.
I got so caught up in making a living for myself without help from my family, that I allowed myself to be blind to what I might have been enabling. It’s time to make it right.
I navigate the seaplane into a quiet landing about three miles from where I usually land it, on a pretty lake close to the base of the mountains. I have a hike ahead of me, but I’m confident I haven’t been spotted. I’m an Alaskan mountain man, born and raised, and I know how to navigate this land better than most.
I just hope Jemma can hold out for another couple of hours.
It’s a tough hike, especially loaded down like I am. My pack is slowing my pace, so I decide to bury some of my stuff in the bushes. Bye-bye, shotgun. My handgun will have to do. I was likely overprepared, anyway.
Just beyond that bend, a couple of militiamen are poorly guarding the trail, but mostly drinking beers and laughing. Without much trouble, I go wide and sneak past them without raising any alarm.
Another hour passes, and I sneak through the bushes and spot what I know to be one of their storage huts. Another one, in the distance, is guarded by two men dressed in black. Either that’s some trap I can’t quite figure out, or there’s something in there they don’t want to escape. Jemma. I know it; I feel it deep down. She’s in there.
I get a little closer and bide my time. If they’re guarding her, that means she is healthy enough to be a flight risk of some kind. It’s a good sign.
It takes a little while for one of the guards to break away, and while he uses the mountains as his bathroom, I dash closer, staying low to the ground, and plant a remote explosive on the ground, pouring a handful of dusty dirt over it so that it looks more like a rock in the road. I hope I don’t have to use it, but it would be fitting if I did — for them to experience one of their weapons against them.
The guard is returning, and I’m not sure I have time to sprint back into the bushes again. I take a breath, get ready for whatever is about to happen, and kind of wish I still had my shotgun.
Whatever happens, I say silently to Jemma; I’m coming for you, baby.
Chapter Sixteen
Jemma
It’s been three hours since one of the guards came in to give me a bottle of water, and I drank the whole thing too fast. I’ve been pacing, squirming, and trying to think about anything but dripping faucets and waterfalls, but enough is enough.
I pound on the door again from the inside. “I need to use the bathroom!” I yell. There’s another long silence and I wonder if they’re still outside and start pounding again until suddenly someone pounds back.
“Shut it in there!”
“You want me to go in here?” I call out with gritted teeth. “All over everything? And I really do mean everything.”
Another pause, and then the door unlocks, and an angry-looking man dressed in black yanks the door open. “You have twenty seconds.” He grabs my wrist. “I’m watching.” I protest as he pulls me around behind the storage hut in the cold air and gestures for me to squat right in front of him?
I fold my arms and glare at him, but he isn’t budging.
“Go or go back inside.”
I don’t see him changing his mind, and at that moment, I not only hate these evil men more than anything, I also hate Jameson for getting me into this situation by being reckless and stupid.
I begin to squat, wondering if my face will start to spasm if I frown any harder, but then a rustle and crack on the other side of the dirt track causes the guard’s attention to snap over there.
“Did you see that?” the other guard is yelling, running over. “Did you see him?”
When my guard turns over to say something to me, I grip the plywood I smuggled out here against my back and hit him as hard as I can across the face. He isn’t down, but he stumbles back three paces and catches himself on the side of the hut. I turn and run as fast as I can down the path down the mountain.
A blur of movement in the corner of my vision has me turning, and I see Jameson scuffling with the other guard in the trees before he slams the butt of his handgun into the man’s skull, knocking him out cold or worse.
“Jemma!” he cries, and he’s at my side with his big, strong arms encircling me in just seconds. My heart is pounding, my legs shaking. I let him warm me just for a second, tears pricking at my eyes, and then I struggle out of his grip. “You’re okay. You’re okay,” he’s saying.
“I’m fine,” I reply, unable to look at him right now. My heart pounds and fear courses through my veins – but the way he has betrayed me changes everything.
He notices, but he says nothing. “We have to run, and then we have to jump. You j
ust have to trust me.”
“I don’t trust you,” I say back, but the guard I hit is struggling back to his feet, palm pressed to his head, and looking around for us, his hand going for his gun.
“Jemma, please, just for this one minute.” His hands are on my shoulders, and I can see the love and urgency both on his face, and it breaks my heart, but I’m just not ready. With guns being shakily pointed at us, though, I have no choice. “Just trust me now, and then you never have to speak to me again.”
The thought of never seeing him again is painful, but I don’t see any other way. Not after lying to me about what he does for a living and getting my unborn child and me into this mess.
“Ready, run in that direction as fast as you can. I’ll hold him off, but when you get to the fork in the road, listen to me very carefully — you’re going to have to jump into the lake. That’s where my seaplane is. It’s a long jump, and it’s cold, but you’ll be fine.”
“We’re going together,” I snap as we start to run. “You’re not leaving me behind again.”
Something passes over his face at this. “Alright. I won’t leave you again. Just keep running.” I’m already almost out of breath from the harsh cold and the intensity of the last few hours, and I hear a gunshot behind us and scream, ducking. “Keep running!” Jameson yells again. The guard is dizzy, but he is steadily aiming his gun at us. Another gunshot sounds. Then he recalibrates, and a third one.
Jameson sucks in a breath through his teeth just as we reach the fork in the path. He falls to one knee, then gets to his feet again. “Jump, Jemma. Get in the plane!”
Jameson: The Men of Whiskey Mountain Book 2 Page 7