“I have a job for you, Earl. Something I don’t want Bobby to know about.”
The man seemed to stand a little taller. “Whatever you need, Sheriff.”
* * * * *
About ten yards from the tree line, something red caught Wes’s eye. He veered that direction, hoping the shooter stayed focused on the cabin and not the woods beyond.
Paw prints lead up to the spot and then further into the trees.
“Wöden?” Chloe whispered.
Wes nodded and took a minute to stomp on the bloody spot, hoping to push it deeper into the snow. No need to leave the neon sign for their predator to track them so easily. Chloe seemed to be doing a dance beside him. She was making a dozen different tracks towards the woods then circling around. Might not confuse the hunter for long, but perhaps long enough for him to get her to a safe hiding spot.
“Stay here,” he told her. He stomped through the snow in the direction Wöden had gone, careful to keep his tracks to the side and the wolf-dog’s visible. He went three or four yards, then carefully back tracked in his own steps until he once more stood by Chloe.
Again, he didn’t think it would fool their pursuers for long, but might buy them a little time.
Gunfire sounded behind them. More breaking glass. Shouting.
Grabbing Chloe’s hand, he pulled her into the forest.
“Do you think you can find him?” Chloe asked as she tromped along in his footsteps.
“Yes.” Wes didn’t need to follow Wöden’s blood trail. He already knew where the wolf-dog was going. “He’s headed to the deer blind.”
“The one where you found him years ago?” She sounded out of breath, but kept right in step with him. Tromping through the snow had taken time and effort, even with her almost stepping right in his tracks. Yet, she hadn’t uttered one word of complaint. Exhaustion had to be hitting her, it was him.
Pausing he held up the low-hanging branch of an evergreen for her to pass by then dropped it behind them. Sheltered in this spot, he crouched down and took a few minutes to scan the path behind them letting them both catch their breath. The cabin looked okay. Whoever it was hadn’t hit the gas tanks, or the propane for the outdoor grill—yet. Would they do that if they’re gunfire failed to draw him and Chloe out the door?
“Do you see them?”
He shook his head. “No one moving, but I don’t know how long we’ve got—”
“Before they find our tracks?” she finished his thought. “Guess we best keep moving, now that I have my breathing under control.”
He wanted to pull her in his arms and kiss the hell out of her, reassure her they’d make it out of this.
Only he couldn’t. After that last mission, he swore he’d never again make a promise he couldn’t keep.
Another gun shot, more screaming followed it. Chloe was right. They needed to get moving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A knock sounded on the kitchen door.
Praying it wasn’t an emergency, Dr. Clint Preston cradled his two-month old daughter in the crook of his arm and went to see who could possibly be out and about on this cold winter morning. His wife Emma had been up with Belle twice during the night, so he was on the early morning feeding detail. The twins sat at the eat-in counter, each downing their first bowl of oatmeal with blueberries in it. They always had two. Until he’d married the boys’ mother, he’d never knew two kids who liked oatmeal as much as his step-sons.
At the door, he found Earl standing on the porch, stomping his feet and blowing into his cupped hands to stay warm. Angling his body to keep Belle shielded from the wind, Clint opened, the door. “Earl, come on in out of the cold.”
“Thanks, Doc,” the older man said as he stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind him. “Wind’s starting to pick up again.”
“Sure is. Weatherman’s saying more snow is on our way. I was just getting the kids fed,” Clint said, sitting back at the counter and holding Belle up on his shoulder to burp her. “There’s oatmeal in the crockpot and blueberries in the bowl beside it if you want some breakfast.”
“Hi, Mr. Earl,” the twins said simultaneously with big grins. Growing up in the small town, there wasn’t anyone Ben and Brian didn’t know. And everyone seemed to know them, too.
“Hey, boys.” Earl grinned back at two red-heads. “That looks mighty tasty, but I already had breakfast over at the Peaches ’N Cream with Pete.”
“You aren’t feeling ill or anything are you?” Clint asked. “Not sleeping out in this cold weather, are you?”
“Yes, I mean, no, I’m feeling okay and Pastor Miller has me bunked down at the church, so it’s all good.” The older man shoved his hands in his coat pocket and looked around the room, nervous as a cat at a dog show.
Okay. Something’s up.
“Is there something I can do for you, Earl?” Clint asked, putting the baby over in her carrier seat.
“Well, not for me, no sir. It’s for the Sheriff.”
Clint waited.
Nothing more came.
“Gage asked you to come see me?” Clint prompted.
“Yes. He gave me a mission. I was to come see if you had the clinic open yet. You weren’t there, so I came on over here.” Earl stopped talking and swayed from one foot to the other.
“Why does Clint want to know if the clinic is open, Earl?” Clint asked as patiently as possible. From the day he first stitched up a cut on the other man’s arm, he’d learned that information came out in bits and pieces. He suspected it might have something to do with Earl’s injuries while in the military, possible PTSD and years of alcohol consumption.
“Said I’m to tell you that you might be getting some injured folks and I wasn’t to tell Mrs. Sheriff that I was talking to you.” All the words rushed out of him as if it took too long he’d forget it.
Mrs. Sheriff? Bobby.
“Why wouldn’t Gage want you to tell Bobby?” a soft voice said from the doorway.
Everyone looked over to see Emma standing there, already dressed in scrubs.
“I heard the knock,” she said before Clint could even ask, already headed for the coffee pot. “Earl, why aren’t we to tell Bobby?”
“He doesn’t want her worrying about her sister.”
Emma brought two mugs of coffee to the counter, setting one in front of Earl, then doctoring hers up with fancy creamer from the fridge. “So, Gage thinks Bobby’s sister might be in trouble and we might need to be at the clinic in case she’s hurt bad?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Earl said holding the mug in his hands as if to just warm them.
“Why would he think that?” Clint asked. Last he knew both Bobby’s sisters were more than a hundred miles away in Cincinnati, having left town right after the wedding.
“Guess I started it. Saw someone take a gun out the direction of Wes’s place,” Earl said as if it were an everyday occurrence, before drinking some of his coffee. “Then Harriett called to tell him she heard gunfire out that way, too.”
Emma set her mug down with a thud. “Boys, get your winter coats and boots on. You’re going to visit Pastor and Mrs. Miller for a while.” She grabbed the baby’s diaper bag, took out two bottles of breast milk from the freezer and slipped them inside. Pausing, she gave Clint a don’t-think-you’re-arguing-with-me-on-this look. “If Harriett’s out there, you’re going to need my help.”
* * * * *
No movement came from inside the cabin.
What was Strong doing in there? Probably cowering in the corner like the little pussy coward he was. Was that what happened to Isaac? Strong hid in the jungle while her brother went out and risked his neck for the bastard and his secret mission?
Viewing through the scope, Hannah slowly scanned the cabin.
No movement at any of the windows. Not even a movement of curtain to see where she was. There was no way they’d gotten out of that cabin. It only had one door. She knew from her scouting trips back in the fall.
Always know
your prey and their lair, before stalking it for the kill.
Dad told them on their first hunting trip and every trip after that. It had taken her six years to find Wes Strong. Another three months for just the right time to make him suffer. Suffer like she had since the day the man in the Army uniform landed on her porch to tell her that the last member of her family had died valiantly serving his company.
Yeah, right.
Hannah bit out a harsh laugh.
She was supposed to believe that Isaac had been on duty with the Army. She was supposed to blindly accept their story like a good little girl.
The government underestimated the connection between her and Isaac. After his first tour in the Middle East he’d told her about his new assignment. The one he wasn’t allowed to talk about with anyone. But he’d wanted her to know. He’d been proud that his team had been selected and he could do nothing but talk about his team leader, the one they called the Chief. Wes, bastard, Strong.
It was his fault her brother was gone. Strong’s fault that she was alone. He’d taken the last person who meant something from her. It was time for him to pay.
She’d shot that giant dog, just after he let it outside. It was probably bleeding out in the woods somewhere, just like her brother had. Next, she’d kill the woman. Right in front of him so he’d know her pain. Then she’d shoot him, bad enough that he’d slowly bleed out alone and with no help or hope. Just like her Isaac.
If he thought he and the woman could stay safely inside, he was wrong. She’d shoot so many holes in the place they’d be inside a piece of frozen swiss cheese.
Focusing her aim on the house again, she slowly squeezed the trigger.
Glass shattered.
Still no movement.
Gathering up her rifle and ammo bag, she slung them over her arms and crawled out of the snowbank in the woods. It was time to corner her prey.
If the bastard wouldn’t come to her, she’d confront him in his lair.
Drawing in a deep breath and focusing her power deep in her chest, she let out the war-cry her father had taught both her and Isaac to scare their enemies. Hearing it echo all around her.
“RWARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”
* * * * *
“What the hell was that?” Chloe asked.
“A barbarian battle cry,” Wes said, moving them deeper into the woods. It was just as chilling this time as the first time he’d heard it out of Isaac Bridger. But it couldn’t be Isaac. He’d buried his friend in the jungle thousands of miles away.
Grabbing Chloe’s hand, Wes pulled her over a log half-covered with snow. “That’s our signal to get moving.”
Good thing Chloe wasn’t one of those people who wanted more details before moving their ass. She felt the danger breathing down their neck as much as he did. Without complaint, she matched him stride for stride through the snow piles and woods, weaving between tree trunks, dodging low hanging branches. Once she stumbled over some deadwood, hidden beneath the snow.
“You okay?” he asked as he stopped to help her off her knees.
“Yeah, just put my foot in the wrong spot.” She took his hand to get up out of the snow and catch her breath. “Let’s keep going before they catch up.”
There it was, that thing that drew him to her. Grit. Determination. Perseverance. And he was damned if he’d let someone silence her.
Their enemy had made a mistake. Unlike any of his missions in other parts of the world where he had to rely on maps or GPS or even locals to find his way, this was his terrain, his territory. The map was ingrained in his mind, the GPS in his soul. He knew exactly where Wöden was headed.
They hadn’t seen any more blood trail on the route they were taking. Which was good. From the first few drops of blood and his tracks, Wes realized his friend was on a direct path to the deer blind. Stepping behind the evergreen put him and Chloe on a more circuitous track, but might keep their stalker from connecting their trails and just following Wöden. Or worse, getting ahead of them.
As expertly as he could, Wes moved through the forest kicking up snow with each step and keeping as close to the base of the trees as possible. He hoped to cover their trail somewhat and buy them a little time. If whoever shooting at them was a member of Isaac’s family—and after that war cry, Wes was convinced it had to be someone related to his former marksman, possessing the same skills—tracking them would be a cinch.
Unlike some deer blinds set up in the center of a harvested cornfield so hunters could catch the deer on the edge of the woods foraging for food, whoever had built this old shack had done so in the forest. It looked out into the tall stalks of the harvested fields. A view of the river lay on the opposite side. Probably to catch the deer on their way for a drink. The window openings were covered in plexiglass with a dark mesh screen on the outside to prevent anyone seeing inside.
Stopping a few yards from the structure, he handed the go-bag off to Chloe, motioning for her to stand close to a tree and stay put. A blood trail came from the field to the opening on the nearest side. Holstering his weapon inside his coat, he approached the structure, softly humming Hallelujah by Leonard Cohan. The same song he’d sung to the frightened, injured pup all those years ago.
Whimpering sounded from inside.
At the door opening, he got down on his knees, his hands palm upwards. They might be friends, but he’d be a fool not to respect he was nearing a wounded wild animal. “It’s me, Wöden.”
In the far corner near the back opening, a large grey and white mass moved. Another whimper sounded, but his friend managed to wag his tail.
“Come on in, Chloe,” Wes called. “Just no sudden movements. Okay?”
“Got it,” she said, stepping up behind him. “How bad is he hurt?”
“Don’t know yet.” Wes took the bag from her, searched through it until he found his flashlight. He turned it towards Wöden. “Easy boy, I just want to look.”
A large dark red spot covered his right hind leg, half-way between the hip and knee.
“Looks like he got hit in the hind leg.” He fished around in the bag for one of the bottles of water.
“Is it broken?” Chloe asked, stepping further into the shack.
“Don’t know. First thing we need to do is stop any bleeding.” He pointed to two extra-large sealed plastic bins in the corner opposite from where Wöden lay. “Hand me a rag out of the black plastic tub.”
Chloe opened the bin, pulled out a package of white cloths and handed him one. “Is this what you want?”
“Thanks.” Taking the cloth, he soaked it with water, crooned softly to the wolf-dog and dabbed at the edges of his wound. When no fresh blood oozed out, he decided to leave it alone for now, hoping the clot forming on top would prevent any infection. “Can you get me some gauze now?”
“There’s medical supplies of every kind. What were you doing, preparing for Armageddon?” she asked, looking through the bin. She took one out two packets, one of four-by-four gauze pads and one of a roll of thin gauze.
He shrugged as he wrapped Wöden’s wound with the gauze to make a pressure bandage. “The bottom one has food, canned and boxed, along with bottled water. After I got Wöden out of here the first time he was injured, I decided to shore this place up and stock it for emergencies. Just in case I ever have to use it as a refuge from the agency.”
Her eyes grew a little wider. “They would come after you? To kill you?”
“If they believed I was a threat. Maybe.” He grabbed the binoculars hanging on the peg near the window and scanned the forest in the direction they’d come. “This is personal, though.”
“Personal? For you or me?” she asked.
He lowered the field glasses and fixed his gaze on her, hating that in trying to protect her from some pervert in her life, he’d put her at risk as a target for a threat from his past. “I’m pretty sure whoever the shooter is, they want me dead.”
* * * * *
It was too quiet.
Standing ou
tside the cabin, she didn’t hear anything. No movement. No one crying in pain. Not even breathing. Silent as a tomb.
Slowly, with her weapon focusing in front of her, she made her way inside. The only tracks leading away from the porch were that huge dog’s she’d shot earlier, so they didn’t somehow sneak out this way. Footprints in the snow on the porch where Strong had exited earlier. They had to be inside.
With her back to the door, she held her gun up with one hand, took a deep breath and tried the doorknob. It turned easily and giving it a little push, she opened it enough to see inside the kitchen area.
No one.
She eased the door open further, taking in the huge living area. Scanning from one side to the other, her gun an extension of her body, she moved through the area, checking out the bathroom and the one bedroom.
Still no one.
Then she spied the closet door.
Inhaling, she stood to the side of the door, grasping the knob in her free hand, her rifle in the other. With one quick motion, she jerked open the door and jumped into the doorway.
Empty.
“AGHHHH!” She stomped inside, looking behind everything hanging there. Throwing clothes and blankets and shoes onto the floor, she let out her frustrated rage. Bent over, inhaling and exhaling as control finally settled over her, she cleared her mind.
Dammit. How did they get out?
She’d covered the main entrance and the two big windows. There were no other doors. No windows ajar.
Think, girl. A hunter always has the advantage over their prey.
Dad had preached that to her and Isaac over and over.
Strong and his woman weren’t in the house. She could waste time figuring out how they’d escaped, or she could find out where they were headed. Once more in hunter mode she headed for the main door.
Outside the cabin, she worked her way around, trudging through the knee-deep snow until she reached the back. Tracks came out of the bushes lining the back walk, headed for the woods.
“Must’ve been a trap door in the house,” she whispered, following them as quickly as she could.
Close To Danger (Westen Series Book 4) Page 23