by David Lucin
“We’re coming to help you,” she finished and stamped out a nearby spark with her heel. “Where do you need us?”
“Their line stretches roughly north-south. Move south to the fence and—” He cut off abruptly. Jenn was overwhelmed by a horrible memory of Val’s last words through the radio at the Go Market, but then his voice returned. “South to the fence. Then go east. You should run into their flank. They’re beneath the power lines.”
“Roger that. We’re on our way.”
Sophie rolled the blonde woman away from the cabin. Ed dragged another by the feet and laid it nearby. Brushing her hands on her pants, Sophie said, “Take Bryce and Yannick. The cabin’s gone, but if we don’t get this fire under control, the entire forest will burn down, my house with it.”
She spotted an ember, stormed over, and kicked dirt to bury it. Ed was stomping on a patch of flaming grass. Unmoving, Bryce stared at the blaze. Was the fireman in him working out how to keep the flames from spreading? Jenn considered asking him to stay behind and taking Sophie or Ed instead, but what help would his experience be without a hose or a firetruck?
“Jansen, go!”
Sophie’s shouting snapped Bryce back to reality, so Jenn gathered him and Yannick, then moved south, away from the cabin. As they left the clearing and slipped into the woods, she heard a second crash, followed by another loud curse from Sophie.
For a minute or two, the orange glow of the fire lit their way, but soon, the night swallowed them. Fortunately, Jenn knew this part of the property better than anywhere else. First came the stump, then the downed pine and the ancient remnants of a shed. The fence, the one Allison and the other farmhands were working on, was close. Sporadic radio chatter continued. Jenn did her best to keep up, but much of it was little more than garbled nonsense to her ears; she was too focused on the task at hand.
She slid between the trees with no wasted movements. Nothing slowed her down. Though the adrenaline was strong, tickling her extremities, her breathing was calm. So was her pulse. No cold sweat, either. With each step, the cross swung and struck her collarbone. A piece of Val was here, and it gave Jenn the strength to push on.
In her mind’s eye, she saw the battlefield. East of the house were two parallel north-south lines, the Beaumonts on the left and CFF on the right. Jenn and her team were swinging around the bottom of both. Val’s lessons about tactics were beginner-level at best, and Jenn was far from an expert, but she knew the power of flanking an enemy. If she made it there quickly and without being seen, she could end this. She was the hammer to Dylan’s anvil.
They reached the fence and cut east. The gunfire became louder, and Jenn vaguely worried about being struck by a stray bullet, but she did her best to bury those thoughts. Soon, muzzle flashes appeared in the darkness like stars twinkling in the night sky.
“Maggy’s hit!” someone shrieked into the radio.
Jenn saw Val, her shirt soaked with blood. She gulped and picked up her pace. They had to hurry.
The fence ceased abruptly at a pile of wooden stakes and coils of wire. Ahead loomed a utility pole in a clearing, marking the power lines Dylan had mentioned. To her left was a second line of muzzle flashes—CFF.
She signaled for Bryce and Yannick to follow her, wanting to get close enough to make her shots count but not so close that she gave herself away. Her brisk jog slowed to a creep, and as she snuck through the underbrush, a yellow-white light, brighter than the others, flashed into existence among the tree trunks. A fraction of a second later, she heard the bark of a rifle. She’d found a target.
At a distance of about a hundred yards, she took a knee and shouldered her weapon. Peering down the sights, she made out the shape of a woman: every time she fired, the muzzle flash lit up her face and chest. Not far past her was another figure, a man. Jenn had twenty-five rounds left in her magazine and one in the chamber. “Always keep count,” Val told her. “So you don’t run out in the middle of fighting.”
“Ready,” she whispered but couldn’t hear herself over the din of battle, so she said, almost yelling, “Now!”
The bark of gunfire assaulted her ears. She hit the woman square in the ribs. Another blast, this one from either Yannick or Bryce, struck her in the neck, and she collapsed into the dirt. Jenn shifted her aim to the figure beyond, then squeezed off two shots, dropping him as well.
She lifted a fist, hoping to communicate that she wanted Bryce and Yannick to cease firing. It worked, and they stopped, so she pointed north and led them forward. She moved cautiously, expecting to be fired upon. CFF must know she was here by now, right?
Then, without warning, the constant rumble of gunfire quieted. The silence was almost eerie, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Among the trees, the sparks of muzzle flashes went out, and darkness returned. Fear filled her stomach like she’d swallowed a boulder. When she opened her mouth to ask Bryce what happened, Dylan came through her radio: “They’re falling back! I say again: they’re falling back!”
* * *
Livingston, one of the longest-serving guards at the ranch, coughed up blood and went limp. Crimson oozed from three exit wounds in his chest. Philip had seen gunshot victims before, but he’d never watched someone’s life slip away from this close.
The attack was a disaster. Philip’s expertise was in storming warehouses and picking off delivery trucks. He was no military tactician, so after meeting with Dad, he consulted with Marco, a CFF man and former first lieutenant in the U.S. Marine Corps. The plan was to divide their forces into two. A smaller team of three, led by Rachel, would feign an assault from the south to draw the Beaumonts away from the house and the cabin, which, according to intel, held vital gear and ammunition. Then, with the main force of twelve, Philip and Marco would advance from the east and strike from the rear or flank. On paper, with arrows and neat lines, it all looked so simple, so perfect. What could possibly go wrong?
Dogs.
They started barking at the main force before it was in position. The Beaumonts quickly moved to engage, so Philip was forced to change tack: he and Marco held the defenders at bay while Rachel and her people snuck around to burn the house and the cabin. Philip saw the orange light of flames above the treetops, then heard the explosion of gunfire from that direction. When Rachel stopped responding to radio calls, he feared that she was hurt. Or worse. The thought of her dead like Livingston made him want to vomit. Deep down, he knew it was true, but he told himself over and over that she was on her way home to Wendy and Brandon.
He should have withdrawn at the first sign of trouble, but his father’s accusation echoed in his head: “You’re telling me that your mother is no longer worth the effort?” So he pressed on, tapping into his anger at those who’d let Mom die. A flurry of shooting from the left flank sealed his fate. Only then did he order the retreat, but it was too late. The Beaumonts were in hot pursuit. Livingston was shot in the back while trying to escape.
As Philip knelt beside him, the barking grew louder. Beams of white from flashlights danced among the trees.
He could stand up and run, but the dog was too close and he wasn’t fast enough to outrun it, not in the dark, where he was liable to trip on some rogue stump or root. In Phoenix, he once did a job with a guy who’d been attacked by a police German Shepherd. His left arm was so scarred and mangled that it looked more like ground beef than a limb. The poor sap had even lost all feeling in his fingers. Whatever was chasing Philip sounded a lot bigger than a German Shepherd, and he was afraid it might kill him. Being gunned down from behind would be a better way to go out.
Praying its handler would call it off if he wasn’t resisting, Philip tossed his rifle aside and curled up into the fetal position. There on the ground, his knees tight to his chest to protect his vital bits, he held his breath and waited for powerful jaws to grip his ankle and shred flesh from bone, but with a high-pitched whistle, the barking stopped, replaced by low, angry growling.
A flashlight shone into his
face, blinding him. “Don’t you move a muscle, scumbag,” a man with a throaty smoker’s voice warned.
Philip didn’t respond or even flinch, only peeked toward the source of the growling. There, a behemoth of an animal sat on its haunches. Lines of drool hung from its maw, and its teeth were bared. Given the command, the beast would certainly chew his face off and would probably enjoy every bite. Beside it was a wiry man around Philip’s age. He wore all black and carried a hunting rifle.
“Tie him up,” the man commanded, and Philip was rolled onto his stomach by someone he hadn’t even noticed approach him. While his wrists were bound with zip ties, he kept a close eye on the dog, not that he could defend himself if it chose to attack him.
A second voice, this one also male but higher pitched, spewed a few expletives at Philip. From his perspective, with his chin in the dirt, Philip couldn’t see him. Then a wet mass struck his cheek. “What do you got to say for yourself, huh?”
Philip gritted his teeth and fantasized about knocking this guy’s legs out from beneath him with his feet, but he knew better than to react. In the heat of the moment, his captors wanted to feel like they were in charge. More than that, they wanted to coax Philip into showing remorse. The cops who picked him up at the meatpacking plant acted the same way. He kept his mouth shut then and he’d keep it shut now, too. Admitting to anything would give these people power over him.
“Get him up,” a third voice ordered.
He was lifted to his knees. The plastic of the zip ties cut into his skin, but he refused to wince or show weakness.
Above him lorded a man with a bushy orange beard. A faded Arizona Cardinals hat sat atop wavy, unkempt hair. He wore a black windbreaker above dirty blue jeans. Across his chest was an AR-15. One of his teeth was chipped, and a scar graced his brow.
Dylan Baker. The Beaumonts’ mysterious head of security.
There was little concrete information about him, save for that he was a former noncommissioned officer in the Canadian Forces. The rumor was that he was dishonorably discharged—or the Canadian equivalent—for his role in a massacre of women and children in West Ukraine. Another rumor said that he was living in the United States illegally, not that immigration laws mattered much anymore.
As Dylan crouched in front of him, his expression was utterly neutral—no anger, no fear, nothing. He sucked his teeth and bounced on his toes while examining Philip. When he was finished, he clicked his tongue, rose to his feet, and said, “Yep. That’s him.”
“You serious?” the man in all black asked, incredulous. “This is Vincent Grierson’s son?”
Dylan touched his earpiece, listening to a radio call, then ordered, “Get him back to the house. I’ll let Sophie know you’re on the way. I’m sure she’ll want to meet him.”
Two Beaumont guards, one on each side, gripped Philip under the armpits and dragged him forward. At first, they tried taunting him. When Philip didn’t respond, they asked him why he attacked the farm. Again he refused to speak. After a few minutes, they gave up and escorted him in silence.
As they continued through the forest, he saw an orange glow among the trees. Thick, dark smoke rose above them. Two people carrying buckets of water and one pushing a wheelbarrow darted past, heading toward the origin of the light.
At the house, Sophie Beaumont sat on the steps leading up to the deck. Nearby, an electric lantern glowed white, highlighting the soot and ash on her face. In front of her were three bodies arranged in a neat row. On the right was Rachel.
Bile filled Philip’s throat, and his knees went weak. Since he killed Valeria Flores, Rachel was the only one to ask if Philip was okay. The only one who cared if he wasn’t. Not even Dad seemed concerned. Now she was gone. He wished that he’d been shot instead. Without thinking about it, he would have traded his life for hers. A family was waiting for her to come home tonight. Nobody was waiting for Philip.
He had to run to her and apologize, had to ask for her forgiveness. So he jerked his torso, throwing the man on his left off balance, but a boot hit him in the calf, forcing him to the ground. He growled and tried rising again, but two sets of hands held him in place.
“Let him go,” Sophie said. “It’s fine.”
As soon as the grip on him released, he scrambled toward Rachel and fell to his knees beside her. Her trademark bun had mostly fallen out, and if not for the blood around her mouth, he might have thought she was sleeping. Then he noticed the dark, wet patches on her shirt. His stomach roiled, and he suppressed the urge to throw up. He wanted to take her hand, but his damn wrists were bound and he couldn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he said to her instead. In the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie watching him closely, then felt the guards come up behind him, but he didn’t care. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
One of them snickered, and Philip lost control. He shot to his feet, ready to head-butt whoever was laughing, but before he could, he was tackled to the ground yet again. Wildly, he bucked and kicked. A leg came free, but a breath later, the weight on his limbs was too great, and he couldn’t move. He spewed a slew of curses as his vision went blurry with tears. All he wanted was to hurt someone. Anyone. These people killed Rachel, his only friend. They needed to feel the same pain she felt, if only for a second. She had a wife who was now a widow and a little boy who would grow up without a parent.
Good lord, how was Philip supposed to explain Rachel’s death to her family, let alone face them? He imagined a hysterical Wendy slapping his cheek and telling him that it was his fault Rachel was dead, and she wouldn’t be wrong.
The realization made his stomach churn some more, but not with anger—with guilt. The only reason Rachel came tonight was because Philip had asked her to join him. Of course she agreed, then added, “Someone needs to watch your back out there, Philly, so it might as well be me.”
Her blood was on his hands. So was Livingston’s. He was in charge of planning and executing the job, and he failed them. But Dad bore some of the responsibility, too. Attacking the farm was his idea, and despite Philip’s protests, he insisted on carrying it out.
Why hadn’t Philip pushed back harder? Why was he such a coward? Sure, Dad saved his life by getting his sentence reduced, and for that, Philip owed the man his loyalty, but there had to be a limit. He should have refused to lead the attack and walked out of his father’s office. But would that have even helped? Dad’s mind was made up, and he would have simply asked someone else to organize the operation. He might have asked Rachel.
“Stand him up,” Sophie said.
The guards pulled Philip to his feet. His cheeks were wet with tears and he couldn’t dry them, not with his arms still bound behind his back. It was humiliating.
“I apologize for the grotesque display,” Sophie went on, elbows resting on her knees. “I only brought them over here to keep them safe from the flaming pile of wreckage that was, up until about thirty minutes ago, my guest cabin and armory.” She made a horking sound and spat to the side. “Based on your reaction, I assume that one”—she nodded toward Rachel, who continued to lie there peacefully, unmoving—“was your friend. We might be mortal enemies now, Prince Philip, but I’m no savage, and I’m sorry for your loss. You have my word she’ll be given to the police and delivered to her family.”
Philip searched for malice in her offer, but he found none. She was being reasonable, even sympathetic, and he took some degree of comfort in knowing that Rachel would be treated with the respect she deserved. He couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if the roles were somehow reversed, if the Beaumonts had attacked the ranch and Dad was in Sophie’s position. Would he promise to turn over the dead? Or would he simply throw them in a hole and cover them with dirt?
“Thank you,” Philip muttered. He shouldn’t be opening his mouth, but he’d ceased caring about giving his captors leverage. Admittedly, he was finding it difficult to hate Sophie and see her as the enemy. “How many others?”
“Six of yours,” she said
with what Philip thought was a hint of remorse. “Two more wounded. My husband’s taking them to the hospital as we speak.”
Six. If he included Valeria Flores, he was now responsible for the deaths of seven people. No, he reminded himself as a prick of anger speared him like a hot needle. Dad’s responsible, too.
Sophie pushed herself up and brushed her hands on her shirt. “I’d love to have a longer chat with you, Philip, and I promise we’ll have a good one as soon as I finish playing firefighter. It remains to be seen if your unprovoked act of arson sets fire to the entire forest. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but it hasn’t rained in the past two weeks, and it’s not like we have water bombers to put this mess out. For as much as your daddy seems to hate me—and believe me, the feeling is quite mutual, especially now—I doubt he’d want to see my crops and this town’s only hope for survival go up in smoke.”
He swallowed the shame clogging his throat. How hadn’t he considered that a fire could spread to the woods and the nearby fields? If it did, in the end, this attack might take more than six lives. That thought terrified him.
He nearly offered to help put out the flames, but Sophie said to her guards, “Now, please get our friend out of my sight.” The remorse was gone, replaced with anger. “Tie him up in the shop and keep an eye on him.” Her expression darkened and she stared straight at Philip as she added, “Oh, and if he makes a move, feel free to shoot him.”
16
Bryce sat in a chair on the deck of the Beaumonts’ house, rocking back and forth, his stare distant. At the top of the steps lay Cream, panting, a line of drool running from his drooping lips. Nearby, Cookie had rolled herself into a ball and snored away. The heroes of the farm battle. Jenn hoped the dogs had been given more than a few treats as a reward for their efforts. Without them, CFF might have snuck onto the property unnoticed.