. . .
From helicopter to waiting Hummer, Sander and his team moved through the night as quickly and as efficiently as they could. Bodies strapped with weapons, they used the cover of darkness to drive ever closer to Paavo's holding. Twice they had come upon soldiers, all of whom looked the other way when they noted the ranking bars displayed on each of their hats. Because Sander and Gunnar were the most notable, they had taken pains before departing the hideout to grease their faces and tie back their hair. It changed their appearance just enough to allow them to go unrecognized under the right circumstances.
Surprised at the level of organization Paavo had achieved in a short amount of time, Sander chose to shift his focus from troop settlements to the recovery of his wife. Fury boiled just under the surface every time he considered Chey in trouble or distress. Brother or no brother, Sander would show Paavo no mercy if one hair had been harmed on Chey's head. Even then, the desire for retribution was strong. Paavo, orchestrator of the attack on the caravan, could not be allowed to go unpunished for his crime.
“We're coming up on the road that will take us to the main gate,” Leander announced in the Latvala tongue. His accent was perfect, flawless.
“Are you sure this is the best way to get inside?” Gunnar asked for the third time.
“We number too few to fight off all the soldiers you saw out in the tent city, little brother. Our best option is to bluff our way past the guards, to the front doors, and inside the castle. Then, and only then, do we stand a chance. You remember the drill?” Sander asked.
“I remember,” Gunnar said.
Leander drove the Hummer at a decent but not reckless speed, as they'd discussed back at the hideout in the city. Sander wanted to give the impression to anyone watching that they were bold about their business and had a right to be there.
“There seems to be something going on,” Leander said some minutes later as they approached the gate.
“What do you mean?” Sander said.
“There are soldiers running in through the gate in groups—is that smoke?” Leander stared up through the windshield as he slowed the vehicle.
“Smoke?” Sander looked out the back side window. Between the tint on the glass, the darkness of night and the height of the bailey wall, Sander couldn't see anything.
“I thought I caught a glimpse of smoke,” Leander said.
“Just get us through the front gate.” Sander readied his gun, angling it across his lap. Gunnar, who sat in the back with him, did the same. They averted their faces just enough when Leander brought the Hummer to a halt and exchanged curt greetings with the gate guard.
It seemed Leander was right. Something was going on. The guard gestured them through with all the respect he might show a carload of Generals, except there was an urgency to his motions and a wildness to his eyes that shouldn't have been there on any given night.
Leander wasted no time. He surged through the open gate, avoiding a running guard by a spare inch, no more. Men ran everywhere, some shouting, others on phones. Surprised at the activity, Sander readied to disembark the moment the Hummer stopped.
This could be the best or worst situation, depending on the level of distraction. Jaw tight with tension and concern for Chey, Sander gave Leander a nod after meeting the man's eyes in the rear view mirror.
Now or never.
Jamming open the door when the Hummer stopped, Sander pulled a mask over his face, along with Gunnar and Leander, and exited the vehicle. He rushed the stairs leading to the front doors, pausing to pull a pin and slide a device onto the floor. Hissing smoke spewed out, surprising several guards. Another went sailing into the great room; a third flew up the stair case where smoke seethed across the ceiling and filled the upper hallway.
“What the hell--” Sander didn't stop to think. He ran forward, immune to the effects of the grenades, and vaulted up the staircase like a man possessed. He knew exactly where the Red Room was, knew precisely how to take the shortest route to Chey. He tossed another disc down and threw one ahead onto the second floor. It got lost in the other smoke pouring more thickly down from that level.
Someone shouted Stop! Sander didn't stop, didn't look back. Leander and Gunnar had their orders, knew what to do. Barging around a corner, he went low to a knee, tripping a guard, and using the butt of his rifle to crack the man in the back of the head. Not a killing blow, but the guard wouldn't rise for a good half hour or more. Someone else loomed from the smoky gloom, eyes round, mouth an 'oh' of shock when the butt of the gun took him in the forehead.
Adrenalized, Sander shook off a brief spate of dizziness and took the next set of stairs in short order. He cut through the upper hallways, moving by instinct and memory. The smoke, thicker here than on any other level, made it hard to see. He took down three more men, ignoring the feel of a wound ripping open along his ribs.
Arriving at the Red Room, the open door gave Sander little pause. He burst in, ripping the mask from his face.
“Chey! Chey!” A cursory check turned up nothing. She wasn't here. Cursing vividly, he yanked the mask back down over his face and hustled into the hallway. Rounding into another room, he searched for his wife. There was so much smoke, he feared finding her unconscious on the floor. She wasn't there. Nor in the next room, or the following.
Coming out into the hallway at a run, he bumped off a body and lifted his weapon, ready to either shoot or fight when Gunnar's mask loomed out of the smoke.
“It's me, it's me. Did you find her? There's a fire downstairs, spreading fast from what I can tell. Leander's taking care of business behind us,” Gunnar said.
“Search the whole floor. I haven't found her yet,” Sander shouted. The mask muffled his words.
Gunnar nodded and jogged the hall to start at the very end and work his way forward.
Sander left his brother to it, departing that floor for the second. He passed prone bodies, Leander's work no doubt, and sank himself into the much smokier hallway. Panic threatened to seize his chest at the thought of Chey locked in one of the rooms.
Gunfire broke out; he swerved into a room, bringing his weapon up to eye level. That was the way he searched, crouched and moving fast, leaving no space unearthed. With no way to get closer to the opposite hall that was on fire, Sander descended to the first floor.
Leander was there, swinging his weapon left and right. Smoke not of the fire nature was just then clearing.
“Anything?” Leander asked.
“No. She's either been taken away somewhere else or is down in the dungeon.”
“We've only got minutes left. No time to search the entire basement,” Leander said. “I already covered the big rooms on the main floor.”
“I'm not leaving without her.”
“She's probably not here. Better to stay alive and fight another day than to succumb to the horde about to come through the doors. I only have enough gas to get us out of here,” Leander said, referring to the grenades they'd thrown to knock out security.
Sander cursed a blue streak. She could be anywhere. There were hundreds upon hundreds of rooms to check on all floors, not to mention the expansive dungeon.
“I bet they moved her. No one has seen Paavo, either, so it's likely he took her with him,” Leander said.
Gunnar bolted down the stairs, shaking his head. No Chey.
“Let's go,” Leander said. Without waiting for Sander's affirmation, he pulled out several grenades and lobbed them through the open door.
“She's not here, let's go!” Gunnar shouted.
With little choice but to comply, Sander rushed the doorway with the other two, covering their back as they streamed into the courtyard. Leander and Gunnar opened fire, shooting to maim instead of kill. The guards nearest were all sprawled, victims of the gas.
Piling into the Hummer, Gunnar leaned out the front window while Sander leaned out the other, clearing a path back through the front gates on their way off the property. It was a messy job, aided by the chaos o
f the fire and disorganization on the hastily arranged 'military'. No one knew where they were supposed to be in this kind of crisis, which helped Sander and the other two get in and out unscathed.
Once free of the castle, Sander and Gunnar sank into the seats. Sander put the safety on his weapon and thrust it onto the seat beside him, tugging the mask off with impatient hands.
“She's out there somewhere,” Leander said, driving onto a dirt road leading away from the encampments and troops.
“She better be, and she'd better be safe,” Sander snarled.
“Let's get somewhere off their radar and we'll decide what our next step is. Or,” Leander said with a glance in the rear view. “You can drop me off here, and I'll go back and immerse myself into the ranks. If she's there, I'll find her.”
“That should be me going back,” Sander said, unhappy with his choices. Unhappy that they'd been forced to leave empty handed.
“They don't know me like they know you. My face isn't a dead giveaway. Yours is.” Leander brought the Hummer to a stop beneath the boughs of a tall tree and twisted around in the seat. He met Sander's eyes.
Sander considered it. Leander was right, and it was part of the beauty of being unknown. A person could slip in and out of places so much easier when they blended in with the rest of humanity. It was one of Leander's specialties.
“You can get back out again, you're sure?” Sander asked.
“Absolutely. I'll look for Wynn, too, although I didn't see her anywhere in there, either.”
“All right. In and out in twenty-four hours. Call when you're ready to know our location and we'll meet up,” Sander said, making a snap decision. He wanted to make sure that Chey wasn't being held somewhere else in the castle. The only way to do that was to let Leander slip back in and clear every room on every floor.
“Will do.” Leander put the Hummer in park, stripped some of his weaponry off, replaced it with other, less noticeable gear, and exited the vehicle.
Sander watched him jog toward the castle, confident in Leander's abilities. The opening and closing of another door alerted him to Gunnar's switch from passenger to driver.
“Where are we headed?” Gunnar asked.
Sander glimpsed his brother's solemn, stern expression via the rear view mirror. One mission down, a wealth of experience gained. Despite the fact they came up empty handed with their target.
“Head East. Stay close to the river and if we're stopped, follow Leander's lead in dealing with the troops.”
“If they press the issue?”
“Then prepare for things to get ugly.”
. . .
Chey walked until yet another cramp forced her to stop. Bracing a palm against a boulder, she pushed at a particular spot on her stomach, willing the ache to go away. She told herself it was from the miles she'd put between herself and the castle, the rough terrain, and the stress of knowing there were unfriendly troops in the vicinity.
Glancing through the trees, she could just make out the vague outline of Paavo's holding in the distance. The twinkle of lights lining the drive and those from high windows made it easy to spot in the darkness. Pleased with how far she'd gotten in her condition, Chey took a moment to rest and take stock of her situation.
She needed water above all else. Her mouth felt like a wad of cotton and it had recently become painful to swallow. Thus far, she hadn't trusted the water in the tiny creek weaving through the forest, but at some point, she would need to set aside her concern to slake her thirst. Shelter was also an issue; her clothing wasn't nearly thick or protective enough to ward off the chill pervading the evening, and if her nose was working properly, rain was in the immediate forecast. Danger lurked out in the open areas, where scouts might be patrolling the pastures and meadows. Remaining hidden was critical to a successful escape.
That meant she needed to begin searching for an isolated farm or home, where the people would hopefully be loyal to Sander and not to Paavo. She didn't think she was far enough away from Paavo's holding yet to come across individual dwellers, which meant another hour or two traversing the woods at her painfully slow pace. Or, perhaps if she cut sideways across the countryside, she could decrease her travel by half. Maybe that would get her off Paavo's property faster.
Pushing off the boulder, picking her way carefully over exposed root systems and rocks, Chey angled away from the pasture to her left. Finding what she thought was a deer trail, she followed it overland for an hour or more, pausing often to give her body a rest.
When a clearing broke open to her right, she made her way to a thick trunk and peered around, choosing to remain hidden and undercover while she assessed things. At the far end of the clearing, the outline of a farmhouse rose against the backdrop of more forest. Part of the land had been tilled for a garden, the rows of green plants sprouting as high as her knee. A dilapidated barn sat farther to her right, near the edge of the clearing, with the vague sounds of horses coming from inside.
It looked peaceful enough, but that gave her no insight to the loyalty of the tenants. Regardless, she couldn't walk much longer. Not only was her body demanding surcease, the second the sun came up, she would be much easier to spot from both land and air.
Remaining in the trees, Chey circled toward the front of the farmhouse, exiting the foliage only when she found a road leading in and out of the property. Taking it, she approached the homestead, spying a light flash in an upstairs window when dogs inside started barking.
A stair creaked as she ascended to the porch, noting a few rocking chairs of good quality taking up space further down. When the door opened some minutes later, Chey didn't attempt to hide or disguise herself. A weathered man stood there with a shotgun angled across his chest, the hounds at his heels growling and barking through the screen. Appearing hastily dressed in overalls and boots with the tongues hanging open, the farmer snapped on the porch light.
“It's dangerous coming to a house—your Highness?” The farmer, upon realizing who he was looking at, blustered in surprise.
“Yes, it's me. I'm seeking refuge and shelter and means of communication. May I find that here?” Chey asked, using English instead of the native tongue. She didn't want any confusion and knew the farmer would be able to converse with her this way. Most citizens learned the second language as children. These next few seconds should tell her whether this man happened to be loyal to Paavo or Sander, or at the very least, if he supported the break up of the country.
“What—yes, of course. By all means. Please, please come inside.” He ordered his hounds to silence, sending the dogs scurrying toward some other spot away from the door when he opened it for her.
Chey exhaled with relief. The man's allegiance appeared to be with Sander. She stepped inside out of the cold, pleased to find the interior of the farmhouse well cared for, clean and filled with polished antiques. Before she got too comfortable, however, Chey knew she needed to make sure that the farmer was willing to shield her and protect her. She met his eyes across the quaint living room as he closed the door.
“I must ask your word that you will tell no one I am sheltering here. Also, it is imperative that I know with which man your loyalty lies.” Chey assessed the farmer's expression while he leaned his weapon in the corner by the door. He stood perhaps five-ten, with broad shoulders, thick arms and a robust stature. The farmer drew himself up, salt and pepper whiskers bristling on his chin.
“You have my word, your Highness. It's only me and my wife here. We're loyal to the King, your Highness, as it has always been.”
“Not the sitting King, Paavo?” Chey wanted to be clear. She detected something like disapproval when she mentioned Paavo's name.
“He is no King, announcement or no announcement,” the farmer said. “We give our allegiance to King Sander, no other.”
Chey didn't allow her relief to show through. Bitter experience taught her that only time and action would prove the truth of his words. “Good. Now, may I have access to your phone?”
“Of course, of course. This way.” The farmer motioned toward an archway that led to a broad kitchen. He entered first and went straight to a phone perched on the tile counter.
“Thank you. Can I ask you to keep watch out the front? If you see movement, alert me.” Chey didn't think she had it in her to flee again. Her legs ached, her back hurt, and she suffered twinges every so often through her belly. The last thing she wanted to do was throw herself into labor out here. Notice that they were about to have company would help, however.
“Yes, your Highness. My wife will be down shortly, if you'd like something to eat or drink,” the farmer said.
“Water, please.” Chey picked up the handset, wondering who to call. If Sander was still unconscious, dialing his phone wouldn't do any good. Besides that, even if he was awake, he might not have it on him. Who then? Krislin could possibly be captured as she was. A call to her might lead Paavo's people right to the farmhouse. As the farmer sat down a tall glass of water next to her elbow, Chey mouthed thank you and started dialing.
There was one person who Chey thought might have gone unscathed in this whole mess. Someone not monitored by security with the current situation unraveling in the family seat.
“Hello?” Hanna said.
“Have a care not to react to my voice, where ever you are,” Chey cautioned her personal assistant. “It's critical that you don't let on who you're talking to.”
“...Yes, Miss Olsen, you've got the order correct. Five pillow cases in baby blue,” Hanna said. The sound of muffled voices in the background faded as Hanna moved away.
Thankful that Hanna thought quick on her feet, Chey continued. “I need you to contact Gunnar. Call him yourself. Tell him I've escaped Paavo's holding and am holed up at a farmhouse a handful of miles away. And I need news of Sander. I need to know if he's all right.--Hello?”
The Wrath of the King (Royals Book 5) Page 13