Cabin 12

by Freya Barker

  I relay the message to Damian when he asks, “Call Blackfoot yet?”

  “Premature,” I point out. “First, I doubt a full show of force at the MC compound will help with information gathering, and second, I don’t want to have law enforcement crawling all over that mountain without a strategic plan.”

  According to Ouray, the former chief’s brother’s name is Jimmy Wells, who apparently is traveling somewhere up the West Coast with his wife in an RV. It may be tough to get hold of him, but Luna can talk to Nosh, see what he can tell us. There are probably others who could provide helpful information, but not when we get their hackles up with a show of force.

  “Agreed,” Damian grumbles. “In the meantime, give me fucking updates.”

  “Will do.”

  I grab my laptop and the files off my desk and stuff them in a backpack, looking over where Luna is zipping up the duffels.

  “Radios?”

  “All in here,” she confirms, patting the bag.

  “Let’s go. We’re taking my truck.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it doesn’t scream law enforcement.”

  THE SAME KID IS AT the gate when we drive up. No lip this time, he simply steps aside when we drive through.

  Ouray is waiting in front of the main building, smoking a cigarette.

  “Greene. Darlin’.” I can feel Luna bristle beside me at his greeting. “You can find Nosh in the kitchen,” he directs at her. “Momma’s cooking breakfast, you may wanna grab some while you’re there. You could use some meat on those bones.”

  I manage to grab Luna’s arm and pull her back when she makes a move toward him. Having her wipe the ground with his ass wouldn’t be a good idea. And I have no doubt she would.

  “Shelve it,” I grind out under my breath. “You’ll get your chance.”

  With a scathing glare at a grinning Ouray, she brushes past into the building.

  “She’s a fiery one.” The man is still grinning, watching her disappear inside.

  “Word of caution; there is a whole lot of power packed in that little package. Don’t be fooled.”

  He turns to me with a wink. “Never could say no to a challenge.”

  Ten minutes later, I find myself sitting at a table in the clubhouse, satellite images of the area open on my laptop, and a plate of bacon, eggs, biscuits and gravy in front of me. Apparently you don’t refuse Momma’s breakfast.

  Luna’s hands are signing at a furious pace as she tries to get details out of a slightly reluctant Nosh.

  “He says the original entrance to the place is about two miles north of the intersection on the left.”

  I locate the entrance on the satellite image and try to pinpoint any structures. I count three.

  “Ask him if he recalls which one is number twelve.”

  More signing back and forth before the old man leans over the table, and taps his finger against the screen on a more densely treed section.

  “He says he can’t remember numbers, but there may be one or two cabins in the woods.”

  I try to zoom in as close as I can on the image, but I can’t pinpoint any buildings.

  “Ask Rowtag,” Ouray suggests, leaning over my shoulder. “Boy spends enough time up there. Takes his dirt bike up on the Colorado Trail all the time, which cuts right alongside those trees.” He points out a faint line running almost parallel to the road. “Anything up there, he’d know. Honon,” he calls out to a massive guy, who comes lumbering in from the back. “Go relieve Rowtag at the gate. Tell him to get his ass in here.”

  The man utters some colorful expletives in response, but heads out the door nonetheless. They may not stand on protocol here, and clearly aren’t afraid to throw attitude, but there’s no doubt who’s in charge.

  A couple of minutes later, the scrawny kid comes sauntering in, same greasy looking red bandanna tied around his hair, same cocky attitude.

  “Dagnabbit, Rowtag,” Momma calls out when she sees him come in. “How many times I told ya to get rid o’ that dang lice-infested do-rag. Don’t be bringin’ that back in here. Burn it.”

  Beside me Ouray chuckles and I bite off a grin. The swagger is gone from his step as he rushes outside and comes back in a second later, bareheaded and with considerably less attitude.

  “Boy’s as wayward as they come, but he sure listens to Momma.”

  “Helps when you hold the keys to the kitchen,” Luna points out, earning an appreciative grin from the chief.

  I leave it to him to ask the kid for information, figuring that would get answers faster than if I were to try.

  It does, five minutes later we head outside, Ouray and Rowtag getting on their bikes to show us a back way the boy knows onto the Ridgeview property.

  The big man is just opening the gate for us when a familiar Explorer drives up on the other side. I make quick introductions and tell Damian to follow us.

  The Ridgeview Rentals sign is partially overgrown but still visible from the road, and up ahead the two motorcycles turn left onto a dirt road but stop about a hundred feet in. Ouray gets off his bike and comes jogging over as I roll down my window.

  “Bikes are noisy,” he explains. “Thinkin’ you don’t wanna announce your presence.”

  “Good point.”

  “Boy says the road narrows down to a trail that dead-ends shortly after, the cabin’s another quarter mile from there. Thick brush, though. Best to walk in.”

  I agree, and pull the truck as far off the road as I can without hitting a tree. Damian follows suit behind me. Luna and I pull gear from the truck, as Damian and Ouray seem to be sizing each other up. The contrast is stark. Damian: ramrod straight, authoritarian, head to toe the agency man, but looks like he could’ve stepped off the cover of Esquire. Ouray, on the other hand, is casually leaning against his bike looking amused, his big tattooed arms crossed over his chest, in torn jeans and formerly white T-shirt; toothpick sticking out from his gray beard, looking like he owns the space he occupies, wherever that may be.

  “Just you guys going in?”

  “For now. We have backup on standby,” Damian answers the burly biker, before turning to Luna. “You head in. Recon only, no engagement.”

  Luna nods and starts strapping on her gear and fitting the earpiece and microphone of the two-way radio headset, before throwing a salute and jogging into the woods.

  “You’re shittin’ me,” Ouray comments, turning to watch as Luna disappears from view. “Sending a woman in by herself?”

  Damian visibly bristles and takes a step closer. “Sending an agent to do what she’s trained for and damn good at. You’d do best not to underestimate any member of my team. Most especially Agent Roosberg; she’s touchy about things like that.”

  I have to give it to the man, he takes the dressing-down with unexpected grace.

  “So noted, Agent Gomez. So noted.”

  Bella

  One minute my bladder is about to explode, and the next I can’t even squeeze a damn drop out. Then again, I don’t usually have an audience when I pee.

  I tried to hold it. Even managed until after I finished rewrapping Connor’s wound, and made us some stale sandwiches on his instructions. But I lost the battle after that.

  He wasn’t gonna let me go without following close behind, and I didn’t bother objecting when he leaned against the door, keeping it open. I figured I had that coming, after he caught me with the phone last time. So I grabbed a grungy towel from beside the sink, covered my front as with the limited material, and squatted down, leaving it draped over my lap. The best I could do under the circumstances.

  Still, apparently my bladder is still desperately clinging on to what little dignity is left and won’t cooperate.

  “Could you at least turn your back?”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mumbles, turning slightly so he is looking toward the living room, but still keeps half an eye on me in the bathroom mirror.

  I close my eyes and try to pretend the door is close
d. I wish it was as easy for me as it apparently is for him. Not that he even bothered using the bathroom, he’s been peeing into an old milk carton, making me empty it in the sink.

  Fucking disgusting, just like the smell in this place. I’m mortified to realize part of the rank odor is emanating from me. Fear and stress, a body that hasn’t seen a shower in two days, and clothes that have dried blood all over them, make for a potent assault on the senses.

  Finally, I manage to release enough to take the pressure off, but to add insult to injury, there’s only a single sheet of paper stuck to the toilet roll. It will have to do. I’m not about to do something as intimate as ask him to pass me a full one. Fuck no.

  I rinse my hands at the sink and forfeit wiping my hands, considering the state of the towel, and let them air-dry instead.

  He swiftly chains me back to the fridge, and sits on the couch himself, putting the gun down beside him as he picks up the controller for his PlayStation. It concerns me. I noticed earlier he was moving around much easier than yesterday.

  How long will it take for him to decide he doesn’t need me anymore? And then what? Is he going to shoot me? Leave me here chained up? From what he told me earlier, I’m pretty sure he’s not done yet. Should I try and fight him? Wait until he eventually leaves and somehow get myself free?

  Christ, I don’t know. I don’t know what the wisest thing would be.

  Instead of sitting on the floor, I pull out one of the kitchen chairs I can reach, and sit down at the table. He’s long discarded the scalpel I used on him yesterday. I try to glance into my kit, which is still sitting open on the table, without him seeing me. If the padlock bouncing against my ankle was a regular one, I might be able to find something to try and wiggle in the keyhole, but it’s not. It’s numeric.

  Shy of trying to overpower him next time I’m allowed a bathroom break—which is not really an option to begin with, since he has that blasted gun pointed at me the whole time—the only other option seems to be to wait until he leaves, then somehow try to get myself unchained.

  I take a look at the old fridge with the chain looped through the molded horizontal handlebar on the freezer drawer at the bottom. I’m sure if I exert enough power, I could eventually break that bar off, but it would not be a quick or quiet process.

  Turning my head the other way, I can look out the window. I ignore the loud sounds of the evidently violent game he is playing, and lean my head on my arms on the table. The view is peaceful, even if the audio is not.

  Trees at the front of the cabin are far less dense than at the back, and I can partially see down to the edge of the large ridge we’re on, another mountain rising up on the other side. From the corner of my eye, I see slight movement outside, and my head snaps up.

  “What are you looking at out there?”

  “Elk,” I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, trying to keep the adrenaline surge from my voice. “Just one, he’s gone now.” I turn my head to find Connor engrossed back in his game.

  That was close.

  No way I want him to know that I just saw a head pop up from behind a rock on the left of the window, a finger pressed to the lips.

  I’m pretty sure it was Luna.

  IT FEELS LIKE IT’S been hours.

  Connor started complaining a while ago about being hungry, and I heated up a can of Campbell’s tomato soup I found in one of the cupboards. My own growling stomach quieted quickly since anxiety took over, and the smell of the soup didn’t do much for the overall bouquet.

  No sooner had he slurped down the last bit straight from the pan, when the sounds of gunfire and explosions from the TV filled the cabin again, and I could resume my vigil at the kitchen table.

  I’m not sure how they’re going to come in, but I want to make sure I’m as far removed from Connor as I can get. I assume they won’t be knocking on the door.

  Almost at a point I wonder if I imagined seeing what I did, I close my eyes, giving them a rest.

  Next thing I know all hell breaks loose.

  CHAPTER 20

  JASPER

  “I have eyes on Bella. She’s alive. I repeat; Bella is alive...No eyes on suspect, but someone is playing Call of Duty.”

  The sound of Luna’s voice crackles in my earpiece, and my eyes find Damian, who has his fingers pressed against his. We both know alive does not mean unharmed.

  I listen to her describe the setting and as much of the layout as she can see, before Damian cuts in. “Get back here on the double. I need a sketch with all entry and exit points. Let’s plan this.”

  Ouray has been observing us from a distance as we gear up, but when he sees Luna come jogging down the path, he swings a leg over his bike and motions for the kid to do the same. Before she even reaches us, he’s already pulling out on the county road.

  “Best cover around the back, two small sliding windows with bracers. One is the bathroom and the other a bedroom. That’s a room we don’t want the suspect near; he has an arsenal spread out on the bed. Unfortunately the easiest access is the front. There’s only one door and a single large window.” Luna sketches a rough layout, and we’re considering options when two cruisers and the SWAT unit turn onto the dirt road and park behind the Bureau’s Explorer.

  We’re joined by Blackfoot, the SWAT commander, and for some reason Chief McMahan comes walking up in full gear.

  “So what do we have?” he butts in, grabbing Luna’s sketch pad off the hood of my truck.

  “I don’t think so,” Damian says, snatching the pad back and blocking it with his body, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not sure what you think you’re doing here, McMahan, but let me remind you; you don’t run this show.”

  The man raises his hands defensively. “Force of habit, Agent. Don’t bite my head off.”

  “Just stay out of the way and we’re good.”

  Turning his back squarely on the chief of police, he goes over possible strategies with the rest of us. It’s not until we have a plan in place and tasks divided that McMahan addresses Damian again.

  “Where do you want me?”

  Just then two ambulances pull in, followed by a KRQE News van. Damian raises an eyebrow and turns to face him. “All due respect, my sister is back there with some trigger-happy goon and an arsenal of guns. I don’t have time or inclination to indulge your need for a sound bite.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.” He plays dumb but everyone knows better. The man hasn’t stopped campaigning since he first put his name in the hat.

  “Let’s quit fucking around,” I bite off, my patience running thin. I don’t have the stomach for politics.

  “He’s right,” Damian agrees. “Stay well back.” He pokes his finger at the chief. “You can come in when the suspect is apprehended.”

  It’s clear the man is here to take credit for the arrest. It looks good on his resume.

  Luna is told to take the lead, since she knows the landscape and we follow in an easy jog behind her.

  The plan is for Dylan to boost Luna and me in through the bedroom window, so I can approach from behind, and Luna can secure the bedroom and the weapons stash. The SWAT team will take the front with Damian and Keith close behind. Timing will be everything.

  “...Everybody in position?”

  Damian’s transmission is followed by several responses of ‘Affirmative.’ I will be first through the window. I manage to slide it open partway without alerting anyone inside. As soon as I hear the countdown, I brace myself on the ledge.

  “...Three, two, one. Go-go-go!”

  Bella

  The moment the large picture window shatters, I dive under the table.

  There’s chaos as officers push their way in through the window and front door, which hangs splintered from its hinges, everyone shouting orders. I see Connor leap up from the couch, gun in hand, and I cover my head with my arms. I don’t want to see what happens next.

  The shot is loud, and the immediate silence that follows is deafening.<
br />
  I jump when I feel a hand on my back, curling up in an even tighter ball, my eyes tightly shut.

  “Get her out of here!” I hear Damian yell.

  Hands grab my hips and pull me out of my hiding place. That’s when I hear his voice.

  “You’re okay, Squirt. You’re gonna be okay,” he mumbles behind me, before calling out, “Someone get that fucking chain off!”

  I feel tugging on my ankle, hear a loud clank, and then I’m swept up in strong arms and carried out.

  I focus on my heartbeat and shut the rest out.

  Jasper

  I don’t want to let her go, afraid to hand her over to the EMTs. Afraid of what they’ll find.

  Her clothes and skin are caked with blood and she’s so still in my arms. I never got a good look at her, I just scooped her up and ran.

  “Sir, you have to put her down so we can check her out,” I’m urged again, and this time I comply, reluctantly laying her on the stretcher they had waiting. The loud clang startles me as the handle I ripped from the fridge still dangles from the chain around her ankle and hits the frame.

  She seems to mutter a protest when they gently straighten her out and I see her face for the first time. One side of her face is bruised and swollen, but I can’t see any other obvious injury.

  One of the EMTs looks up and seems to stare at something over my shoulder. “Let’s load her up in the rig.”

  I turn my head and look straight into the lens of a camera.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” I bellow, just as Dylan comes jogging up.

  “I’ve got it.” He blocks my view of the camera, and gets in my face. “Jas, I’ll take care of it. Go see after her.”

  With one last glare over his shoulder, I turn and climb up in the rig, making sure to block Bella from view as they cut her shirt down the middle.

  “Hey, lady,” the older of the two EMTs talks to Bella as he examines her. “Your vitals are fine. Heart rate a little elevated and you’re breathing could be a little deeper, but no visible injuries other than that shiner. You’re a mess, but it’s not your mess, is it? Let’s get you cleaned up a little.”