WALKER: The men of Whiskey Mountain

by Love, Frankie

  Whatever hell I wanted him to pay is gone in that moment, when I see him blocking the shot to the woman who is carrying my child.

  He may be a fucker, a fiend — but he’s my brother and right now, when it matters most, he does the right thing.

  Waverly shrieks as two men from the cartel drag her from Maker.

  I run full throttle and tackle the man, my arms raised and my anger growing into a rage that can never be contained. I fire, and so does he, but I roll away before the bullet grazes my shoulder. I force him away from the love of my life, and Beam is behind me, punching the living daylights out of the man who blocks his path.

  I toss Maker the pistol. Give him the chance to make things right. His eyes meet mine for a split second and we both know.

  At the end of the day, we are family.

  A fucked-up family with some shitty roots, but if we get through this alive, I will find a way to make amends.

  As he takes the gun, however, a shot bites him in the back and he falls — face-first — against me. Blood pooling from his chest and I lose whatever cool I had collected.

  I’m not in the mood to fight, but I am ready to protect what is left of my family.

  Gun raised; I lay down the man who shot my brother in the back. I spin, facing Beam. Every last member of the cartel is accounted for.

  And Maker paid the highest price.

  My brother is all but dead.

  Sweat pools on my chest as I drop to his side, not wanting to lose him. Not like this.

  Because maybe I was wrong.

  Who the hell did I think I was, seeing the world in black and white? Nothing is as simple as that.

  28

  Waverly

  It was quite possibly the wrong decision. But when I saw the bullet hit Maker in the back, I ran for Maker’s gear in the corner. Fumbling with the latch, I open a briefcase and find a phone.

  Looking around, I hesitate. If I call 911 right now, everything might be over for Walker and me.

  But Maker would be alive.

  Only minutes ago, Maker confronted me with the same question. If he had saved my sister, I’d never had met Walker.

  But now, if I let Maker die, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look myself in the mirror again.

  Holding up the phone, I call 911. “There’s been a shooting,” I tell the responder. “I’m at a warehouse, in San Diego.” I don’t know much more, certainly not the address to where I am. “Yes, people are dead. It’s bad.”

  Walker’s eyes find mine.

  “No,” he chokes out. “Drop the phone.”

  Terrified, I do as he asks.

  I trust him. I do.

  But there are so many people dead, at our feet.

  Only Beam, Walker, and I are standing.

  I run over to him. “I called for an ambulance. You can’t just let your brother die.”

  Beam and Walker have dropped their guns to their sides, and we fall to the floor, next to Maker. Blood is pooling around him; his eyes are rolling back into his head. I press my hand to his chest, wanting the bleeding to stop but it’s no use.

  “He wasn’t going to hurt me,” I say, sobs shaking my shoulders. “He wanted a new start. He wanted freedom. Like you.” Walker runs his hands through his hair. His agony is palpable. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t think—”

  He cuts me off. “You did the right thing, Wavy. Of course, you did. But now, we need to do the right thing, too.”

  “I don’t want to lose you.” I’m lost as to how we are supposed to fix any of this unless he means that this is it for us. Turn ourselves in for being accomplices in the death of the men around us.

  “We were defending ourselves, Wavy,” Walker says, looking down at his brother.

  Tears fall down my face as sirens begin to blare in the distance.

  “You’ve said it yourself; the D.A. has been looking for you for a long time.”

  I know Walker is trying to be strong for me, but I see the fear in his eyes as he looks around the warehouse. It looks really bad.

  “I have an idea,” Beam says.

  Walker and I look up at him. This hulk of a man whose story is as ragged as the man I love. Who knows what brought Beam here, to this place? He’s huge, with a scar down his face and eyes so dark they make my blood turn cold.

  “What’s that?”

  “I take the fall. You guys leave. You go back to that cabin and let me go to prison.”

  “No,” Walker says. “I won’t let you do that.”

  “Your family was my life. Tiny and Maker and you. And now Tiny is gone.” He glares at Walker as he says this — and my heart pounds. “And Maker is gone. And you’re all I got left, whether you like it or not.”

  “I fucked you over,” Walker says. “Why would you do this for us?”

  Beam snorts. “We’ve spent a decade fucking one another over. It’s how we do. That doesn’t mean you aren’t family.”

  The sirens have reached the parking lot and we hear police cars pulling to a stop.

  “If you’re gonna go, you gotta go now.”

  Walker’s eyes reach mine and there is a part of him that I know wants to let Beam do this.

  It’s the part of me that is clinging to the hope that Walker and I could still have a life together.

  But the other part knows there is no way in hell Walker is going to let Beam take the blame when the truth is so much more complicated than that.

  As the squad pulls open the doors of the warehouse, guns raised, everything I hoped for fades.

  But then, as the police yell for us to put our hands up, Maker grabs Walker by the throat, dragging him close. “Get the cops,” he says as blood falls from his mouth. “I need to make a confession.”

  Maker isn’t dead. He’s here, doing what he can to make things right. Beam shouts for the cops to come, and they rush over.

  As Walker looks on, his brother says his final words, before his eyes close, “The shit you want is on my yacht. 41-22-13.”

  It’s a combination to a safe, we all register that. And we all seem to realize that whatever is hidden in that safe will mean the cops have the information they need on this cartel. It’s not just Maker and Walker the cops have been after.

  In other circumstances, this cache of information might be enough to get the guys off — and I have feeling it is still going to be enough for Beam and Walker to end this day as free men.

  But not everyone is free.

  People paid a price.

  Maker has paid the price of his life.

  My sister Jemma did too.

  The EMTs move Maker to a stretcher, load him into the ambulance which starts careening down the freeway toward the hospital. Police have swarmed the warehouse and Walker; Beam and I are taken to the hospital — Beam’s injuries indicate he was in the crossfire of the cartel. Walker and I both know they had nothing to do with them. The medics insist we all go to the hospital to be checked out. The police decide that is where they can handle the questions, and within minutes we are all in an ambulance, trailing Maker.

  The fluorescent lighting of the hospital is harsh, but everything about this day has been. Walker takes my hand, squeezing it tightly as we wait for a doctor. I press my hand to my belly, scared that the trauma of the day may mean something has happened the tiny baby in my belly.

  When a doctor finally comes for us, I tell her Walker can’t leave my side. She examines me quickly relieved that I have no wounds from the attack of the cartel. “Is there anything you need?” she asks, not understanding the role I had in today. Honestly, I don’t understand it either.

  “I’m pregnant,” I tell her. “I need to make sure the baby is okay.”

  The doctor nods gravely. “How far along are you?”

  I shake my head, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Not many weeks. Five?”

  The doctor asks the nurse to bring in the ultrasound machine, explaining that it’s too early to hear a heartbeat, but that the ultrasound will show us the ge
stational sac, yolk sack and fetal pole. “That will indicate if the pregnancy is developing as we’d hope.”

  I swallow, the life of my unborn child flashing before my eyes. I'm wanting so badly for all of this to be okay. For this little one to be strong. For Walker to be by our side every day of our lives.

  “I’m scared,” I admit and Walker kisses my forehead.

  “I know, baby,” he says. “But we’ll get through this.”

  The doctor uses a wand for the ultrasound, and Walker holds my hand tightly the entire time. “There you go, right here,” she says, pointing to the small screen. “This shows us that there is a… oh, well. Actually,” she smiles. “Waverly,” she says. “You are having twins.”

  “Twins?” Walker chokes.

  Stunned, I try to focus on what she is saying. “You can tell, so soon?”

  “Usually, mothers have to wait until eight or ten weeks to come in… but these circumstances that brought you here today were unusual, to say the least.”

  “And we’re okay?” I ask, staring at the screen where the faintest dots in the world assure the doctor that this pregnancy is real.

  “I think so. You will need lots of care and supervision from on OBG-YN, but congratulations.”

  A knock on the door jars us from our moment.

  “Excuse me,” a police officer enters the room and my heart rate quickens as doctor follows him in. “I’m sorry to interrupt but we have an update on Maker.”

  Walker’s jaw goes tight and his fingers squeeze against mine.

  “Did you find the safe, on the yacht?” Walker asks.

  “We found the safe, but that’s not all,” the uniformed officer says.

  “What else?” Walker asks.

  The doctor clears his throat. “Your brother survived.”

  29

  Walker

  It's the last thing I expected to hear when the officer and doctor walked into the hospital room. Waverly and I have just been given the news of our lives. Twins, a miracle if there ever was one.

  I pull Waverly to me as she sits up in the hospital bed, rearranging her clothing to cover herself and I wish I could pull her into my arms and take her away far, far away from the horror she saw today. No woman should have to watch so many people die.

  I know my hands are plenty dirty and I have no idea how this is going to end. If the officers are going to handcuff me and drag me to prison or if whatever they found in Maker’s safe is enough to make me a free man. But I do know this. The words they're saying now — that my brother is alive, stun me speechless.

  “How is it possible? I ask. I saw the bullet. I saw the blood.

  “He's in surgery,” the doctor explains. “He has been for the last hour. Somehow the bullet didn't hit any major organs or arteries. He will have a recovery time for sure, but he's doing more than holding on by a thread. He's a fighter.”

  I think back to my childhood— Maker and I, back to when my mom was still alive before everything went so damn dark. When we were kids and we'd ride our bikes to the corner store and buy ice cream cones and candy bars.

  We'd run around the neighborhood making a ruckus and starting fights, but not the kind that would land anyone in trouble. Kid stuff, brothers. We were the Whiskey Brothers through and through. And somehow, I ended up on Whiskey Mountain, but it wasn't by accident.

  When I looked on a map, trying to figure out where I was going to go next — after all the shit went down with my dad — I looked for a place that felt like home. I saw the Whiskey Mountain Range in Alaska and I knew that was where I belonged.

  Maybe it's where Maker belongs too. He's not dead. He told Wavy he wanted to get away, to start over, and maybe he can. It's crazy that these ideas are even running through my head. Considering what I was thinking about doing to him this morning, turning him in all on my own. Family is a fucked-up idea and forgiveness isn’t for the weak. Maker and I, we've been through hell and back, but maybe it wasn't for nothing. We're still standing, aren't we?

  And I'm about to be a father.

  I'm scared to ask the question, but I need to. If Maker's alive and his safe has been opened, what does that mean for all of us?

  But the police officer beats me to it. “We're going to need to bring you to the station, son and have a little talk.”

  “What did you find in the safe?” I ask.

  “We found out enough about your father and what he was doing long before you came into the family business,” the officer says, shaking his head. “There is enough photographic evidence to get the cartel under our thumb, where we want ‘em.

  “What about me? What does this mean for me and Waverly and Maker and Beam?”

  The police officer nods and the doctor leaves the room, understanding. “Look, Walker, we're prepared to make a deal. We need your cooperation to testify how we got the information for it to hold up in court.”

  “Just like that?” I ask as the officer curls his lip and I know his hands are probably just as dirty as mine. You don't work for the DA and walk out clean.

  “I’m not saying just like that, Walker, but I am saying we got what we needed. More than I needed. More than I ever asked for.”

  “So, I’m free to go?”

  He shakes his head. “We’ll need you to come in for questioning — no way are you off the hook without paperwork.”

  Relief washes over me. I’m not going to rot in prison, my brother, and Beam won’t have to pay the price.

  I turn to her knowing that the police officers are waiting for me. “You still haven't answered my question,” I say, pulling her to my chest. “How long are you going to make me wait, Waverly?”

  It’s not a romantic place, a sterile hospital room with a police officer and a nurse moving in and out. But Waverly is going to be a mother and I need her to be my wife.

  “Marry me, Waverly. I can't go to the police station without knowing where we stand.”

  She looks at me. Licks those pink lips of hers, her eyes locked on mine. “Don't be such a fool, Walker. Of course, we’re getting married.”

  A smile spreads across my face and I swear to God, I feel like a little boy all over again. Riding my bike in the neighborhood, starting fights, but not getting into trouble.

  “So, it's a yes?” She nods.

  “I’ll marry you, Walker, on one condition.”

  “And what's that?” I ask, feeling all the love in my heart. Love, I never thought I'd find.

  “When you’re at the station, you need to tell the cops about what Father John is doing up in Alaska. It’s sketchy — and my friend Bellamy, she needs out.”

  “Of course,” I say. “We’ll take those fuckers down.”

  I kiss her then. Not knowing how long I’ll going to be at the police station — needing to hold onto her kiss like it’s my saving grace. I don't know when I'll see Wavy again, or when I'll be able to kiss her like this, long and deep and hard. Or, when I'll be able to breathe her in and hold her tight.

  So, I do it now because there's going to be a hell of a lot of questioning about my life, about what I've done for my father and what he's done to me. I'll do my best to tell them what they need to know. It’s time for it all to be finished.

  When I moved to the Whiskey Mountains a year ago, I made a vow that I was done with the family business.

  Turns out the family business wasn't done with me.

  I had to come back down here and get my brother.

  Now I can go back home and make Waverly my wife.

  30

  Waverly

  The sky is as blue as I remember, the lake just as crystal clear, welcoming me home as Walker lands the seaplane. I look over at him, feeling giddy. It's been a long few weeks.

  We didn't want to leave San Diego where Maker has been recovering, until we knew he was well enough to be released from the hospital. Along with that, there were lots of depositions that the police department in San Diego requested Walker be a part of.

  I'm proud of him.
I know it wasn't easy to dig up all the pain from his past and lay it all out there to be recorded and documented, but now finally it's done.

  “We made it,” he says, looking at me, killing the ignition.

  “Thank God,” I say. It’s been a long trek.

  “And now, finally, we're home. Home.”

  When he says that, he means it and I know it to be true. This place is our little slice of paradise and nothing is going to change that. Nothing. I know those kinds of words can be ominous, but they are true as anything I've ever heard. This is our home.

  Now I press my hand to my belly. We were able to hear the heartbeat before we left San Diego and I'm all set up with a doctor in Anchorage now. She says for the last six weeks of my pregnancy, Walker needs to get me to the city. She didn’t think me having twins in the middle of nowhere is a good idea. It makes sense. Of course, a part of me wishes I could give birth out here at our cabin, but another part of me knows that the safety of these two little ones is what matters most in the whole wide world.

  Walker helps me out of his plane. He's been overly cautious, constantly checking in to make sure I'm okay. I don’t mind the attention; it feels good to be so cherished by the father of my children.

  “You got it,” he says, holding my hand to steady me.

  “I’m fine,” I say laughing as he grabs our bags from the plane’s hold.

  He takes my hand and we walk up to the house. I breathe in the scent of the pine trees and the deep chill in the air wraps around my shoulders.

  “I’ll build us a fire right away,” he says as if reading my mind. “It’s going to snow soon.”

  The sky is already dark, but it's that moment right after sunset when it's like anything as possible. And anything is possible. I'm living proof.

  “I expect Jameson will be down tomorrow,” Walker says. “But I told that son of a bitch to give us a night alone.”

  “Good,” I say. “I miss being in the loft with you.” I mean it; there's no way I could ever get enough of Walker and I don't think he could get enough of me.