“Boxy, I’m sorry, but we have to go. Your owner is going to worry about you. I know I’d be worried.”
Finally, Mr. Stubborn Furball jumped onto the seat in front of her. “Now you be still and let me do the driving.”
Chapter 16
Cox crouched on his stomach, using the veil of the snow-covered brush along the edge of the woods to keep him hidden. From his position he could see the campsite. Surrounding the fire ring were three tents but he didn’t see any sign of life, at least not yet. The blazing fire told him the campers were close. The bloody carcass of a rabbit had been carelessly tossed a few feet outside of the camp. Cox guessed that was the gun shot he’d heard, the camper killing breakfast.
Any seasoned camper knew better than to leave a dead animal so close to a campsite. In the mountains any wild animal could show up hungry.
That morning Cox had gone out to grab firewood when he had heard a gunshot. The sound had been so faint that he could have almost missed it, but instinct warned him that he needed to check out the perimeter. He hadn’t gotten far from the cabin when he started smelling a campfire and soon he saw the rolling smoke in the distance. He steered the snowmobile toward the fire, not sure of what he would find, but he didn’t expect to find campers. Not in a blizzard.
He’d parked far enough away, hoping the campers hadn’t heard his approach.
Attempting to investigate the scene from afar, the snow hard partially melted from footprints which made it hard for him to guess how many campers were staying at the site. However, he could tell they had been there for a few days. Empty cans of food were negligently tossed about the site.
He saw movement at one tent and a man stepped out, stretching. He was tall, broad shouldered, bulky, and wearing a scowl. He lowered his arms, saw the fire, and his brows scrunched. He kicked up snow with his boots as he cursed a sailor’s streak. He continued to mumble under his breath as he tossed snow onto the blaze, putting out the fire.
Once the flame was only a cloud, the man marched over to the other tent, unzipped the front and stuck his head inside. He came out, scratching his head.
The second camper must be missing.
This only intensified Cox’s curiosity.
The man looked like he was about ready to explode in anger and then another man appeared. Tall, beefy, tattoo….tattoo? Cox remembered Hazel saying that the killer had a tattoo on his neck. What was the chance these men, camping in a close proximity to the cabin on Pitchfork Mountain, would fit the physical description she’d given down to the tattoo? There weren’t any coincidences in Cox’s book.
“Where the hell have you been, Forty?” the pockmarked man growled.
Cox’s stomach twisted. So this was Forty? Bingo.
The man called Forty stopped and shrugged. “Why the fuck did you put out the fire?”
The man ate up the distance, stopped within inches and stuck his finger in Forty’s face. “Because we were told no fire, idiot!”
“Yeah,” Forty whined. He definitely had an air of insouciance about him. “I know what we were told, but I’m freezing my balls off! I’m tired of this shit.” He stepped around the bulkier man to bend close to the fire pit apparently to stir up the remaining embers.
“What is wrong with you? Were you dropped on your head when you were a baby? We’re supposed to lay low.”
“Lay low? You call sleeping in a snowstorm while freezing our asses off is laying low? I call it freezing to death.”
“So help me God, I should blow you away—” The first man fisted his hands, looking like he meant business. “First the fucking shot and then the fire.”
“Are we supposed to go hungry too? At least I killed the bastard and cooked him. I didn’t see you minding as you gnawed on the bones.”
“You’re missing the point, genius. The sound of shots echo in a mountain. Someone could hear it miles away. And the smoke from the fire…who the fuck camps in a blizzard?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Exactly. You don’t. Don’t you think it’s suspicious?”
Forty stood, swiping ashes off his palms. “Maybe you should target that anger toward that fucker that brought us here and left us to die. Know where I’ve been this morning?”
“Hell if I know. Jacking off in the wilderness?”
“I took a walk and did some investigating. I found that dickhead not too far from here. Guess where he’s staying?”
“Just tell me,” the man gritted through clenched teeth.
“In a warm cabin a few miles from here. He’s certainly not abiding by his rule with using no fire. Smoke was just a rollin’ out of the chimney.” Forty chuckled. “What do you think about that, Roman? While we’re stuck here, cold and hungry, he’s snuggling up nice and cozy with a dog. Yeah, a damn dog. Where’s our dog? I bet we’ve been played as fools from the very beginning.”
The other man named Roman was quiet for a few seconds. “Fine. That’s fucked up, I agree, but we don’t want to alert anyone that we’re here. That’s the whole reason why we’re here, jackass. Undercover. Hiding out. Did he see you?” The man frantically cast a glance around the area, a bit pale.
“No. I snuck in, but he wasn’t there. Freaking dog darted out when I opened the door.”
Cox heard the last statement and gritted his teeth.
The puzzle pieces were fitting together. He knew there was something he didn’t like about the man, Richard Starr. How did Cox miss it?
With half the mind to raid the campsite and get the truth from the thugs one way or another, Cox inhaled deeply and his logic returned. There was one of him and two of them, three if Cox counted Starr. The campers didn’t have snowmobiles and the one called Forty was back to starting a fire. They’d be here for a while.
Cox’s priority was Hazel’s safety.
Backing slowly out of his hidden spot, neither man had any suspicion that they had been watched.
Time was of the essence.
He needed to get to the cabin to make sure Hazel was okay and then he’d make a safety plan. He didn’t have time to waste.
Cox ran through the snow, retracing the path he took to the camp site. He kept his pace fast and his breathing even. Chanting in his mind, “I can do this. I can do this.” And he would. Hazel’s life could be in danger at this very minute.
Why had he left her? He should have stayed, but then he would have never known the danger that was on the mountain. Cox preferred to be the hunter not the hunted.
Forty and Roman might be capable criminals, but they certainly sucked at surviving outdoors. That played in Cox’s favor. This was his turf.
The other man Starr might be the biggest problem. Forty had said that Starr wasn’t at the cabin. Where was he? Had he been watching the congressman’s cabin? Waiting for the chance to take care of Hazel?
Cox had screwed up.
If anything happened to her he’d never forgive himself.
Why hadn’t he put two and two together?
He should have known. Instead he was thinking with his dick and not his brain.
Guilt drove through him like a freight train. He should have never allowed things to become personal between him and Hazel, especially not while they were on Pitchfork. Damn. He’d failed her. Just like he’d failed Cris. He should have done more. When he realized she had landed with the wrong crowd he should have intervened. More than just the typical lecture. He thought he’d known what she was doing, that she had stopped doing drugs, but he’d been wrong. Cox believed his mother partly blamed him too. As a big brother he needed to protect her.
Just as he needed to protect Hazel.
Like he should have protected his unit better.
The guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders. He’d failed so many.
A pain shot through his knee, but he kept running, stayed focused on each step that he took. He forced his legs to work seamlessly, his muscles charging forward. The snow crunched under his boots. His breath left clouds of crystalized ice aroun
d his head. Thankfully the snow had stopped but the cold air seeped into his lungs.
Finally, he saw the snow mobile. Relief settled into his bones when he hopped on, kicked the machine into start, and turned toward the cabin.
He made the trek in record time and he was barely stopped when he jumped off and raced to the door. He saw the dog prints in the snow on the porch.
The air swooshed out of his lungs.
Barreling through the door and splintering the wood, he didn’t give a damn as he hurried inside, sprinting through each room like a madman. “Hazel?”
The emptiness told him what he already knew. She was gone.
And so was the second snowmobile
He knew exactly where she was because because he found the note she’d left him hanging on the refrigerator.
Chapter 17
Hazel called for Boxy to follow her to the door of the small cabin.
He seemed reluctant but after urging him, he finally followed her.
She knocked and realized the door was left open a few inches. Odd.
Boxy whimpered and his ears perked.
“What’s wrong, boy? Is your owner okay?”
Pushing the door, she peeked in, seeing nothing. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
Boxy, who had been lingering at her side, ran past Hazel, stopping to look back at her as if asking, “Are you coming?” . He was nervously pacing from front paw to paw .
Fear built in her spine. “What are you trying to tell me?” She couldn’t leave because if the owner was hurt, she’d have to help him.
From her spot in the center of the living room she could see the kitchen was also empty. Dishes scattered every available space on the counter and empty cups were left all over the table. The strong odor in the air made her stomach rumble.
Stepping further into the room, she touched the wood stove and it was still warm. So Richard had been there that morning.
Boxy scratched at the closed door .
“Is he in there?” She pecked on the wood lightly. “Hello? It’s Hazel. I have Boxy.”
When she didn’t get an answer, she looked down at the dog who was panting and his tail was tucked. She inhaled sharply, looking for a bravery she wasn’t sure she had, and finally turning the knob. The smell burnt her nostrils. She’d never smelled something so wretched. Pulling up the neckline of her coat, she covered her nose and mouth and took a step into the room.
The bed was left unmade and the window was left wide open. It was freezing inside. The owner had definitely been in the room because a full pack of cigarettes and a whiskey bottle sat on the nightstand.
Scanning the room, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, yet Boxy was whimpering loud now.
If Hazel had suspected that something was right before her instincts were off the charts now. She needed Cox. He would know what to do.
Swiveling to make a quick exit, she stumbled over a boot. Looking closer, she noticed there was a spot of blood on the toe.
“ “Boxy, let’s go!” She took a step toward the door, but her breath caught.
The closet door was open and a foot was sticking out.
Her heart kicked up and her stomach twisted. She forced her feet to move. Her mouth went dry and her hands shook.
Each step closer felt like she was walking through a swamp. Sweat splattered her skin and the coat she wore turned bulky. Part of her wanted to run, but the scene before her compelled her.
As she got closer she could see into the closet. She clamped a shaky hand over her mouth to quite the scream that begged to come. Tears welled in her eyes and she stared through blurred vision at the dead man propped against the wall. His shirt was covered in blood. His hat was askew, covering part of his face, and his skin was blue.
“I’m sorry, Boxy. Your owner is gone.” Someone had come into the cabin and had hurt Richard. It appeared to be a bullet wound in his chest.
“We need to go. I hope Cox is back at the cabin. He will know what to do and who to call. Come on, Boxy.” She hurried from the bedroom, through the living room, caught up in her sadness over Richard’s death that she didn’t realize someone was blocking her escape. She stopped so abruptly she almost lost her balance.
“Richard?”
The man who’d called himself Richard Starr stood in the doorway, very much alive and well.
“Good morning, Hazel Levine.”
“Wh-what’s going on?” She hadn’t told him her last name when she met him. Suddenly, things were becoming clearer. “You’re not Richard, are you?”
Boxy must have sensed the tension because he growled from where he stood at alert next to her. “So, I guess the secret is out,” the mystery man said in a lowered, threatening voice.
“You killed Richard Starr.” Her lips quivered. “Wh-who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. If you play nice, I’ll make this as painless for you as possible. But if you fuck around, I assure you things will go south. Very rapidly.”
Boxy now had his teeth bared.
The man pulled a gun from his back pocket and aimed it at Hazel. Her breath caught and fear trickled down her spine. “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it clear?”
The dog barked.
“Shut up, mutt. I’ve had enough out of you,” he pointed the gun directly at Boxy.
Hazel lunged at the man and gave him a hard push. Although he was a large man he hadn’t been expecting the push so he had been caught off guard. He wobbled slightly and the gun went off. Boxy attacked at the same time.
Another shot sounded and Hazel heard a loud squall.
She kicked the man’s hand, sending the gun flying from his grasp.
“Run, Boxy!” Hazel jumped over the man’s legs. He was now laying on his back in the snow on the porch as she ran for the snowmobile. She wanted to run fast—needed to get away! She felt like everything had slowed and she could barely move…couldn’t get her feet to move in the snow.
Another shot went off and she saw a flash of brown fur near the shed.
She couldn’t stop to look to make sure Boxy was okay.
She had to keep going.
Footsteps sounded loud in her ears. He was behind her. He was close…so close that she could hear his heavy breaths.
Her boots felt like they were filled with concrete.
A beefy arm came around her neck jerking her back against a solid wall of muscle. Then she saw the glint of the gun a second before it pressed against her temple.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” the man whispered in her ear.
She grabbed his arm, trying to pull his clutch away, her nails digging into his skin, but he was choking her. She felt blood on her fingers, knowing she’d drawn blood from her scratches. Or maybe Boxy had bit him.
Yes. She could see the injury now.
Acting upon impulse alone, she dug her thumb into the bite wound on his arm. He howled and loosened his grip, just enough that she was able to slip from his hold. Frantically, she darted toward the shed where she saw Boxy. She had no clue where she’d go but she had to get away.
By the time she made it to the shed she was out of breath and her heart beat so fast she thought it would explode. She pressed her back against the scratchy wood and listened. Where was the killer? She couldn’t hear anything through the pounding of her pulse.
Peeking around the corner, she couldn’t see him. She could see a trail of blood coming straight for the shed.
Shit!
Hazel pushed off the wall and ran, but it was too late. She felt a hit to the back of her head and she dropped to her knees, feeling a pain rip through her neck.
“What did I tell you? Don’t fuck with me.” The killer grabbed her coat in his fist, dragged her up to her feet and turned her toward the cabin. Hazel searched for Boxy but she had double vision. Where was the dog? Was he okay?
Most importantly, where was Cox?
The man shoved her through the living room and into the kitchen. He gave her a push that se
nt her hard against the refrigerator. Paper towels and whatever else was sitting on top fell around her. She backed up, pressing her body in the corner of the counter, gripping the edge tightly. She blinked against her blurred sight. The man was bleeding heavily from Boxy’s bite. His blood dripped all over his clothes and the tattered linoleum floor.
“Throw me that towel,” he demanded through heavy panted breaths.
She did as he ordered, keeping her eyes locked on him as he wrapped his arm tightly. He was a large man and she knew she couldn’t fight him. Her only chance was stalling whatever his plans were to give Cox more time to save her.
Within seconds the white hand towel was soaked in the killer’s blood. He needed stitches or he would bleed out.
“You’re going to bleed to death,” she said.
“Wouldn’t that be your lucky day. Don’t count on it.” He laughed and started rummaging through the drawers.
What was he looking for?
Then he produced an industrial stapler. “I thought I remembered seeing this here.”
Hazel understood what he was going to do. “You need stitches.”
“No, I need the wound closed. That’s where you come into play.” He reached into an overhead cabinet and took out a half empty bottle of whiskey and set it down on the counter. “Come here!” he demanded.
“No.”
“The last thing you want is for me to get more pissed.” His eyes held evil.
Realizing she could play this in her favor, she took the necessary steps that brought her beside him. He shoved the stapler in her hand. She looked from the wound to the tool. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Staple my skin together.” He reached up, slamming his fingers in her hair and pulling her so close she could smell the sour whiskey on his breath. “Listen, bitch. Try something and I’m going to shoot you to smithereens.” To drive home his words, he set his gun on the counter. He uncapped the bottle and poured it over his arm. “Do it!” He guzzled the whiskey.
Hazel had no clue what she was doing or how she should do it but instinct told her if she didn’t help him he’d do exactly what he’d threatened to do.
Tormented by the Lawman (Mountain Force Book 3) Page 15