by Julie Miller
“Get that phone!” someone shouted.
Someone tore her purse off her shoulder. She kicked. Clawed. Twisted. “Brandon! Help! Help me! Ky—!”
A gloved hand slapped an oily cloth over her mouth and nose, forcing her to breathe in some nasty fumes, making her dizzy. Rough hands lifted her off her feet. Her knee cracked against the running board of the van before she was shoved inside. “Help me,” she wheezed. The hands let go and she rolled across the floor of the van, slamming into the opposite side. “What’s happening? Who are you?”
“Samantha!” Help. Brandon was coming for her. She heard two sharp pops, and jumped inside her skin at the metallic clank of two bullets striking the back of the van.
A man in the front seat thrust his hand out the window and fired a gun that made a whup, whup sound. A silencer. Her would-be rescuer wouldn’t hear the man returning fire.
She pushed herself up, tried to warn him. “Brandon!”
The side door slammed shut. The van lurched forward and she fell.
“Glasses.”
Cruel hands pulled them off her face, blurring the world around her. “Please... I can’t see—”
“I said shut her up.” She felt the prick of a needle in the side of her neck. “Get the tracking device.” The man giving orders cursed. “Drive!”
Those same cruel hands tugged at her coat. A sharp blade pierced the back of her shoulder. Her world blurred into a woozy haze of faceless men and squealing tires.
Kidnapped. Just like her mother. Michelle Eddington had been taken on a raw night just like this one.
Samantha’s brain went dark on one final thought.
Kyle’s betrayal, seeing his daughter used and being played for a fool himself, might anger her father.
But this would break him.
Chapter Three
A beer bottle sailed through the air. Jason dodged the flying projectile and watched it shatter against the wood door frame behind him at Kitty’s Bar.
He halted a moment to brush off some of the beer that had sprayed his jacket and quickly assessed the combatants of the fight he’d just walked in on. Looked like locals versus outsiders. Located on the outskirts of Moose, Wyoming, Kitty’s was usually a quiet hole-in-the-wall where a man could get a drink and meet a friend without running into too many people. But at o-dark-thirty on a Friday night, this place had more people in it than he’d ever seen—and half of them were throwing punches.
“Stop it!” Kitty Flynn yelled from behind the bar as a table tipped over, spilling playing cards and poker chips over the warped floorboards.
He spotted a familiar search and rescue ball cap sliding across the floor before zeroing in on a head of curly red hair. Sure enough, Marty Flynn, Kitty’s nephew and Jason’s coworker, was right in the middle of it, landing a punch on a blond guy in a three-piece suit before pulling a dark-haired waitress out of Blondie’s arms and pushing her toward the bar and his aunt. “You get out of there, Cathy, before you get hurt.”
Marty shoved at a dark-haired twenty-something wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. That was one of the Murphy boys, twins who ran a gun shop with their dad. He never could tell Cy and Orin apart. The kid shoved right back, trying to get at a tall, lanky man who already sported a black eye. Jason pulled off his knit cap and shook the rain from the dark hair that dripped onto his collar. He never should have answered his phone.
“Hey, Captain. I’ve got a woman we need to track down in the Tetons.”
“Missing hiker?” Jason had asked, thinking the woman was a fool to risk going up into the high country in the spring before the upper elevations had thawed. But he was already grabbing his go bag to load into his four-wheel-drive truck. Night was the worst time to be lost in the mountains. And all this rain and snow, depending on where she was on the mountain, made this a particularly miserable night.
“Not exactly.” Either the woman needed their help, or she didn’t. Jason waited for the younger man to explain. “Meet me at Aunt Kitty’s place. I’m not calling in anybody else on the S&R team because the guy who wants to hire us says this rescue needs to stay off the books. Hell, I’m not even filing a report with the boss, just getting clearance for a flight plan from the airport. I don’t think we need anybody else. And we could make some good money. A lot of it.”
Jason didn’t care about the money. What he cared about was living with his conscience. Letting another woman die when he could do something to help was his Achilles’ heel. Letting anyone die in those mountains when he knew them better than just about anybody in a hundred-mile radius wasn’t something he could hide away from, although he tried damn hard to hide from the world as much as it would let him. He’d found that five-year-old kid who’d wandered off from his parents last summer. He’d tracked down a mountain biker who’d had a run-in with a cougar, carried the guy on his back to clear ground so he could be life-flighted to the hospital. There’d been skiers and snowboarders who’d needed his help, and he’d been there, too, for them.
But it was never enough. The debt was still there. He’d lost too many lives over in Kilkut. No matter how far off the grid he got, that need to balance the scales—a life for a life—demanded that he answer Marty Flynn’s call. Maybe one day the score would be even, and the losses he’d suffered in the Corps, the anger and the guilt, wouldn’t be able to find him anymore.
And so, he was here. At Kitty’s Bar on the outskirts of Moose after midnight, walking into the middle of a bar fight.
Looked like Marty was actually trying to stop the fight, and was getting cursed and dinged up for his trouble. Four more locals, judging by their boots and jeans like Jason wore, were going after four guys in suits who seemed to be toying with them. One of the suits, an older man with a square face and silvering hair, hung back behind the tall guy and a bruiser with a handlebar mustache. Although he seemed mature enough to avoid duking it out with men half his age, he wasn’t above shouting orders, or answering taunts about getting the hell out of where he didn’t belong. Mustache Man had training. He blocked every punch, braced his feet when another drunk local charged him and used his attacker’s momentum to shove him off to the side.
Blondie wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth and grabbed the older man’s arm, pulling him away from two men who knocked over a bar stool and toppled to the floor. “Stay out of it, Walter. Let the professionals handle these yokels. That’s what you pay them for.”
“I’m not afraid of a fight.” While the older man didn’t dive into the thick of swinging arms and wrestling men, he did shrug off the young man’s grip, stepping forward while Blondie waved him off with a dismissive curse and pulled out his cell phone.
Marty looked a little outnumbered, since neither side seemed interested in backing down. But Jason’s priority was the missing hiker, not bailing Marty out of a tough situation because someone had made a joke with the wrong person, or the city dude had made a move on one of the small-town country girls.
Sure, Jason could handle himself in a fight. The Marines had trained him to do that better than most. And the fact that he was built like a tank and stood almost a head taller than anyone else in the room generally dissuaded all but the drunkest or most stupid from picking a fight with him in the first place.
But he didn’t wage war anymore. Only the one inside his head. Not even for a friend from the Corps. Jason backed toward the broken bottle and swinging door. Marty could call in a different favor on another day.
Jason was big, but he wasn’t fast. Not fast enough to make his escape, at any rate.
“Captain! Jason. Thank God. This is the—” Another local boy with a dark crew cut and tats lunged past Marty, trying to get at the old man. He recognized Richard Cordes Jr., the son of a militia leader who’d led a remote compound in the area back when Jason had been a boy. “Damn it, Junior, I said back off!”
“Mind your own business, Marty.” More glass
smashed. “Eddington!”
“Jase!”
Putting every emotional survival instinct on hold, Jason squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled a deep breath and answered Marty’s plea for help.
He grabbed the young man who was picking himself up off the floor and shoved him down in a chair with a warning to stay put. Kane Windisch—he was Junior Cordes’s cousin. Jason captured the next punk in a neck hold and twisted him out of his path to reach Marty and Junior, who was wielding a broken bottle, ready to cut anyone who got too close.
And that’s when he saw the guns. The bulges inside their suit jackets indicated Mustache Man and the lanky suit guy already sporting a black eye were both carrying.
“You shouldn’t have come here at all, old man,” Junior whined. The young hotshot poked the jagged edge of the bottle at the old man who must be Eddington. Mustache Man pulled back his jacket and reached for his gun. “Accusing me of stuff you know nothin’ about.”
As Junior lunged forward, Jason grabbed him from behind, lifting him off his feet and trapping his arms at his side, shaking him until his grip popped open and he dropped the bottle. Jason kicked it aside and set Junior down. The kid reeked of beer and smoke, like he’d just come in from camping. Jason shoved him back and pointed a warning finger at him. “You need to sober up and calm down.”
Junior smacked his hand away. “Get out of my face, Jase.”
“Who are you supposed to be?” Mustache Man sneered from behind him. “The cavalry? We got this covered.”
Jason turned on him next, unused to looking men straight in the eye, but not fazed by the man’s size, either. He nodded to the gun in his hand. “You need to put that away.”
“And he needs to back off,” Mustache Man warned.
“These boys aren’t armed.” No telling how many rifles and shotguns Junior and his buddies had stowed in their trucks outside. But Jason figured Mustache Man already knew that. This guy was a pro, former military if not a trained bodyguard for the old man and Blondie. Like Jason, he probably even knew about the revolver Kitty kept behind the bar for protection and to break up fights like this melee. But that didn’t mean Jason would allow him an unfair advantage over a group of young men who were too plastered to think straight. “I said put it away.”
“You ain’t fightin’ any fights for me, Jase.” Jason heard Junior squirming against the restraining grip Marty and one of the twins had on him. “I ain’t afraid of you, Eddington, or your peacekeepers you brought with ya.”
“Dante.” The silver-haired man in the pricey suit put a hand on Mustache Man’s shoulder. “Put the gun away.” But his eyes were fixed at a point beyond Jason’s shoulder. “I’ve been watching you for two years now, Mr. Cordes, and I’ve been content to keep my distance. As far as I’m concerned, justice was served the day of your father’s execution. But if you’ve done anything to my daughter, I will make it my business.”
Junior’s lips buzzed with a beer-fueled curse. “Justice, my ass.” He elbowed Marty in the gut, freeing himself. “You here to take my land, too? The way you took my daddy’s?” He charged the older man. “You’ll see how we do justice around these parts.”
Dante was definitely Eddington’s protector. The big man moved forward to block Junior. With barely a twitch of his mustache, he twisted Junior’s arm behind his back, pushing him into the dark-stained pinewood bar and smashing his face down onto the polished bar top.
One of the twins lunged forward to help his buddy. But he pulled up short, raising his hands in surrender as Mustache Man pulled his gun and aimed it squarely at the young man’s face.
“Back off,” Mustache Man warned.
Enough. Jason pulled the young man out of harm’s reach and stepped forward to take his place. The gun was now pointed at his chest, but it didn’t waver as Mustache Man’s dark eyes narrowed.
“Take a deep breath, mister,” Jason stated in a calm voice. The other suit had pulled his gun, too. An MK-23. He hadn’t seen a laser-sighted pistol since his last deployment. Didn’t know why any man would need hardware like that stateside. These two meant business.
Mustache Man pushed a little harder on Junior’s skull to keep him pinned to the bar. The damn gun didn’t move. “You are outmatched, my friend. There are two of us, and you’re not armed. I am Dante Pellegrino, owner of Pellegrino Security.”
“Good for you.” Jason wasn’t impressed by the posturing.
“Yo, Jase.” Marty Flynn materialized at Jason’s side, dusting off his cap and plunking it backward on his head. “This is Jason Hunt, Mr. Eddington. The guy I told you about. Served with him in the Corps.”
“Dante.” Like a superior officer, the bulldog who answered to Mr. Eddington spoke to his man in a tone that said he expected him to listen. “Let Cordes go. I need to talk to this man. Put your gun away. Brandon, you, too.”
With a deliberate chomp on the gum or chew he held in his cheek, Pellegrino released Junior and holstered his weapon. His sidekick did the same. When Junior sprang toward Pellegrino, Jason tripped him and shoved him out of harm’s way, warning him to walk away from the fight before Jason chose a different side.
“You, too, Kitty.” Jason’s tone was a little more indulgent with the barkeep, since she reminded him of the mother he hadn’t spoken to in two years.
“Jason Hunt, if you didn’t look so much like your daddy...” With some noisy grousing about people telling her what to do in her own place, she circled back behind the bar and put the revolver away in its drawer. “Cathy, get the broom and dustpan out of the back room.” The young waitress eagerly hurried off to do her boss’s bidding. “Wash your face while you’re back there, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Only after the weapons were all accounted for did Jason take his eyes off Pellegrino. He glanced over to where Junior was downing a surviving shot of some dark liquor and grinning like an idiot. “Go on home.” He nodded to his cohorts who were already gathering their jackets and hats. “One of you sober enough to drive?”
One of the twins—Orin, he thought—nodded. He’d been the one with the gun shoved in his face. He shrugged into a lined denim jacket. “Yes, sir.”
But Junior had been the son of a fiercely independent militia leader. In addition to inheriting his father’s rebellious attitude toward all things authoritarian, he was a little too drunk to choose keeping his mouth shut and leaving as the wiser course of action. He adjusted his stained and twisted cowboy hat over the crown of his head. “You owe me, Eddington. You owe my family. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”
Kitty circled around the bar with a tray and wet rag to clean the messy table. “Please, Junior, just go. Drinks are on the house. Whatever beef you’ve got with these people—”
“You don’t need to do me any favors. I ain’t so broke that I can’t pay my debts.” He tossed a couple of bills onto the table before turning to volley one last shot. “You took my daddy from me, Eddington. You watch out or I’ll take something from you.”
“Damn you, Cordes.” The older man surged forward. “If you’ve harmed my daughter in any way... I’ll give you the money right now if it means getting her—”
“You can’t give him the cash.” Pellegrino moved to intercede, but Jason hooked his arm around Pellegrino’s shoulder to stop him from turning this argument into another fight, especially when Kitty would be caught in the middle of it. Pellegrino sloughed off Jason’s hold and bounced a warning glare from his dark eyes.
Kitty stepped in front of the older man. “I told you, Junior has been here all night, playing cards. He couldn’t have taken your daughter.”
Taken? That word left a very bad taste in Jason’s mouth. What had Marty gotten him into?
“I’m goin’, Kitty. I’m goin’.” With his posse urging him toward the door, Junior put on his jacket. He paused when he brushed past Jason’s shoulder, looking up a
s though seeing him for the first time. “I could have taken him, you know.” No, he couldn’t. Not with the buzz on that clouded his judgment and coordination. Not against firepower like Pellegrino and his man were carrying. “You talk to your daddy recently? You’re lucky you still can. I heard Nolan’s been to see the doctor a couple of times this last month. You ought to call home sometime, instead of spending all your days building that cabin up in the woods. Or interferin’ with my business.”
A flash of concern that Jason’s father, Nolan Hunt, was facing some kind of health scare he didn’t know about blindsided Jason for a split second. He was equally steamed that Junior had chosen to make his screwed-up life his business, just because his pride was wounded. But Jason quickly shoved both emotions back where they belonged, relaxing the fist at his side. There was a reason Jason was out of the loop on family matters, a reason why he chose the wide-open space of the mountains over life in Jackson, Wyoming, where his parents lived. And no taunt from a drunken kid was going to make him forget that reason.
“Good night, Junior. Stay out of trouble.”
After the door swung shut on Junior and Orin, the older gentleman in the three-piece suit stepped up to shake his hand. “Mr. Hunt. I’m Walter Eddington. Thank you for coming on such short notice. What’ll you drink?”
Kitty scooped up her tray and headed back to the bar. “I’ll get a fresh pot of coffee brewed for you, Jase, and bring you a cup.”
He nodded his thanks and followed Marty and Eddington to join the blond man who’d left the fight to make a call at a large, stained table at the far side of the bar. He hung back when Dante Pellegrino and his sidekick flanked him, refusing to come any closer until they gave him the space he needed. Pellegrino smoothed his thumb and forefinger over the curves of his mustache, sending Jason a very clear message that he was used to calling the shots around his employer. But with Jason not budging, Walter Eddington muttered a choice word and ordered Pellegrino to take a seat. Before obliging his employer, he shifted his gaze to his hireling and nodded toward the bar’s front door. “Metz. Check outside to make sure Cordes and his boys drive away and don’t come back. I don’t want any surprises.”